


ghost in the machine

by squadrickchestopher



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Descriptions of Pain, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Fake Character Death, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), Kidnapping, Loneliness, M/M, Magic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Clint Barton, Protective Bucky Barnes, Suicidal Thoughts, The Astral Plane, Touch-Starved, WinterHawk Big Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:54:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 74,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26563945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: Clint looks around at the team again. He sees the pain in their eyes, the way Natasha is rolling his arrow between her fingers, the general sense of depression over the room, and suddenly his question from earlier is a lot more morbid.Who died?“Crap,” he says, watching Tony silently drink his whiskey. “I thinkIdid.”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 432
Kudos: 710
Collections: Winterhawk Big Bang 2020, Winterhawk Bingo Round Two





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for the WHBB! Will be posting a new chapter every few days. There is also _AMAZING_ art accompanying this fic, which I will link as soon as I have the links for it.
> 
> ETA: [HERE IS THE AMAZING ART](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/post/629817177653035008/bigwolfpup-art-done-for-winterhawkbigbang-this) done by [bigwolfpup](https://bigwolfpup.tumblr.com/), please go give it the love it deserves!! (seriously, Clint is transparent and it's so fucking cool). While it technically belongs to a later chapter, we're sharing it now because it's wonderful and deserves to be loved. 
> 
> ETA: now there is also _gorgeous_ art from CheshireAliceDoodles, who did an [INCREDIBLE job, and also deserves all the reblogs.](https://cheshirealicedoodles.tumblr.com/post/630964365137444864/feedmecookiesnow-bigwolfpup-art-done-for)
> 
> ETA: flowerparrish is podficcing this and zir voice is gorgeous. It's linked at the end, please go give it a listen!

Clint feels like _shit_.

Absolute, complete, utter shit. He feels like he went on a week-long bender, threw himself off a building, and got hit by a car, all at the same time. And then got run over by stampeding bulls for good measure.

“Fuck,” he mutters. He’s laying facedown on something. Possibly concrete, judging by the feel of it. He spares a moment to think about how _sad_ it is that he knows what it feels like to wake up on concrete. Then he groans and manages to flop over on his side in a very good impression of a fish.

He opens his eyes to squint up at the sky. Dark sky. Nighttime. Was it nighttime before? He vaguely remembers there being sunlight, earlier, because of the way it had caught on Natasha’s worried face as she reached out for him—

His memories slot into place, and he groans again, rolling onto his back. That’s right. They’d found a Hydra hideout, and had gone to take it out. There’d been a brutal fight in some upscale New York neighborhood. Clint was cleaning up the last of the stragglers when an angry guy with a weird kind of ray gun thing had staggered out of the door. It had been pointed directly at Clint. There’d been enough time for Natasha to shout his name, and then _boom_ , he was out.

Clint forces himself to sit up. He _hurts_ , dammit. He’s sore, and he’s tired. And he’s alone, apparently, because there’s absolutely no sign of his team around.

“Hey,” he says to the empty street. His voice sounds like hell, and he coughs a few times. “Guys? Anyone?”

He tries his comms, but no one answers. He thinks maybe they’re broken, but no, they double as his hearing aids, and he can hear himself just fine. So that means the rest of them are off comms. Which means they really did leave him here.

Which he doesn’t understand, honestly. Cap would never leave a man behind, and Natasha would _definitely_ throw a fit about leaving him behind—presuming he hasn’t pissed her off in the past few weeks. He thinks for a moment, but nothing comes to mind. He did eat her leftover Chinese food the other day, but that was more petty than anything. Certainly not worth leaving him unconscious on a sidewalk after a battle. Or to convince the others to do the same.

Clint slowly picks himself up. He’s not bleeding or anything, which is a nice improvement from his usual post-battle status. His face hurts, but he suspects that’s more down to laying on concrete for an undetermined amount of time. He gingerly probes at it to make sure. Doesn’t _feel_ like anything’s broken.

He cracks his back and looks around for his bow. It’s nowhere to be seen. Neither is his quiver, or his sidearm. Which means that someone picked them up, or stole them. And still raises the question of why the hell someone would pick up his equipment, but not him.

“Not gonna find any answers here,” he says, just to hear a voice, and starts carefully making his way down the street. The fight had been a nasty one in terms of people and bodies, but all things considered it was one of their less destructive ones. No collapsed buildings this time.

He must have been out a long time, though, because all the bodies are gone too. Other than some dust and a few loose bricks, there’s no evidence there was a fight here at all. Which raises even _more_ questions, because even if his team had left him on the sidewalk, surely somebody else would have noticed him. Anybody. An unconscious body tends to draw attention.

Clint shakes his head and steps over a rift in the sidewalk. He’ll go to Avengers Tower, and if this is all a joke, he’s going to put an arrow in someone’s eye.

* * *

The Tower is all lit up, like usual, and Clint can’t help but feel relieved at the sight of it. He’s so tired. He wants to punch them all in the face, and then crawl into his bed and sleep for a million years. Some of the stiffness is gone, walked off during his trek home, but he still feels like he’s been run over by a particularly vengeful truck or something.

The doors are propped open, and he stumbles through one, waving vaguely at the front desk guy. Front Desk Guy looks right through him, and Clint grins despite his tiredness. He and Nat have an ongoing bet about whether or not the guy’s on drugs, and he’s pretty sure he just won.

There’s another guy at the elevator, some asshole in a three piece suit who thinks it’s cool to wear sunglasses indoors. Clint steps in with him and leans heavily against the wall, reaching out to stab at the button for his floor. It doesn’t light up at his fingerprint, which is odd, and he tries a couple times before throwing his hands in the air and giving up. He’ll add it to the list of things he has to yell about.

Sunglasses taps the button for the main Avengers floor, which works just as well. “Thanks,” Clint mutters. God, he’s _tired_. He actually might have to save the yelling for a later date, when he can form the words necessary.

The elevator dings, and the doors swoosh open. Clint follows Sunglasses out onto the main floor. There’s a few other suits hanging around here, and they raise their hands at Sunglasses. “Hey,” one calls, stepping over. Clint vaguely recognizes her from SHIELD. “Anything?”

“No,” Sunglasses says. “No sign. They’re gone.”

“Shit,” the woman says. She looks exhausted, as tired as Clint feels, and she brushes her hair out of her face with an irritated gesture. “Fine. Okay. We’ll keep on it. They couldn’t have gotten far.”

“Where’s the team?” Sunglasses asks.

“Upstairs.” The woman presses her lips together and shakes her head. “It’s a shame, what happened.”

Clint pauses. “What happened?”

“I know,” Sunglasses says. “How are they holding up?”

“About as well as expected. We haven’t debriefed them fully yet. We might wait until tomorrow.”

“What happened?” Clint demands, a little louder this time.

“Probably for the best,” Sunglasses says, and Clint turns on his heels. They’re clearly set on ignoring him. Best to just go upstairs and see for himself.

He climbs the stairs slowly, letting his anger and irritation fuel him. He can see them through the slats of the stairs, all sitting around various places. No one appears hurt, at least, and he does a quick head count. Everyone’s there except Thor. And him. And that makes him angry all over again, because he had to walk back from their battle and he’s fucking tired, and oh yeah, his so-called friends _left him on the sidewalk_.

“Hey assholes,” he says, finally hitting the top of the stairs. “The hell did I do to deserve that?”

They don’t answer. They’re sitting around the lounge, teary-eyed and quiet, still bloody and bruised from the mission. Cap and Bruce are on opposite sides of the table, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Tony’s at the bar, one hand clasped around a glass of amber liquid while the other taps on a StarkPad. Natasha’s on the couch. 

What _is_ unusual is the silence. Not that they’re a particularly rowdy group, but it’s weird to not hear Tony cracking jokes, or Steve giving some kind of post-mission speech. But now the only thing making a sound is the rattling of ice cubes in Tony’s glass. Even Nat has the thousand-yard stare going on, and she’s clutching something in her hands. One of his arrows, a broken one he’d been fixing before they got called out. He recognizes the purple fletching.

“Okay,” Clint says, slowly turning to take them all in, his anger fading into confusion. “Why the long faces? Who died?”

They don’t answer. No one even looks at him.

“Hey,” Clint says, a little louder. “Guys!”

They don’t answer.

He starts to get annoyed. “This isn’t funny, okay? You already left me on the sidewalk, isn’t that enough pranks for one day?”

They don’t answer.

Clint storms forward and swipes at the glass in Tony’s hand, intending to knock it out of his hand, to force Tony into acknowledging him. “Come on, what’s the—“

He stops. Looks at his hand. Looks at the glass. Tries to make sense of the fact that his hand just went _straight through it_ , like it was a hologram, or a projection.

“Uh,” he says, doing it again. His hand _fizzes_ when it passes through, and he feels a slight tickling sensation. As soon as he pulls his hand away it reforms into something more solid.

The drink doesn’t move. Tony doesn’t notice.

“Oh god,” Clint says, looking at his hands. They’re slightly translucent, almost shimmery around the edges, and he holds them up to the light, realizing he can see the brightness _through_ them. “Oh god, oh god, no, no, _no_.”

He looks around at the team again. He sees the pain in their eyes, the way Natasha is rolling his arrow between her fingers, the general sense of depression over the room, and suddenly his question from earlier is a lot more morbid.

_Who died?_

“Crap,” he says, watching Tony silently drink his whiskey. “I think _I_ did.”

* * *

Clint spends his first twenty minutes as an official ghost absolutely losing his shit. He goes around the room, screams in everyone’s faces, tries to knock things over. Nothing works. Nobody looks at him, or acknowledges his presence, or even _hints_ that they might be able to hear him. Eventually, Clint works himself up to the point where he almost passes out from hyperventilating—which is stupid, if he thinks about it. He’s a ghost. Do ghosts need air?

That just makes him freak out more. He’s a _ghost_. He’s a motherfucking _ghost_. How is that even possible? 

“Stop it,” he tells himself, but it doesn’t help. Of course it doesn’t. He can’t talk himself out of normal panic attacks, how is he supposed to talk himself down from this? He’s standing in a room full of his best friends, and they can’t see or hear him.

Is he really dead?

He feels fine. Well, not _fine_. He still feels awful. But isn’t that just more proof? If he was dead, wouldn’t he be...gone? Not feeling anything at all? He’s died before—temporarily, more of a not breathing thing—but he hadn’t experienced this. This is totally new territory. He doesn’t know how to navigate this. Hell, he doesn’t even know what this is. It’s not like he woke up next to a _Help, I’m a Ghost!_ pamphlet or something.

That thought makes him laugh, a little hysterically, and that more than anything shocks him back to reality. There’s got to be a way out of this. Ghosts aren’t real. He’s not dead, he’s just invisible or something, and there has to be a way to make the rest of them notice him.

“Guys,” someone says, and they all turn to see Sunglasses walking up the stairs.

“What did they find?” Cap demands, suddenly sitting up straighter.

“Nothing yet,” Sunglasses says, and he actually takes off his glasses, displaying a pair of tired, sad eyes. “I’m sorry. We’ve got every single pair of eyes we can on it, but they’ve dropped off the map. We’ve got Thor chasing a possible lead, but otherwise...” He shrugs. “I’m sorry. I wish I had better news.”

Tony slams his fist on the bar top. “That’s it?” he says. “Sorry, we can’t help you? That’s all you’ve got to say?”

“We’re doing our best,” Sunglasses says, and Tony just lets out a bitter laugh.

“Your best is shit,” he says. “Do better.”

Natasha rolls the arrow between her fingers. “What about the gun?”

“We found some specs,” he says. “They’re being uploaded into the computers now. But they’re incomplete.”

“JARVIS scanned it,” Tony says. “We can compare with what you found. Maybe figure out what the hell it is, anyway.” He takes another sip of his whiskey. His hand is shaking.

“It _disintegrated_ him,” Bruce says quietly. “I’ve never...” He stops and rubs his eyes. “I’ve never seen anything like it before. He just...crumbled.”

They’re talking about the ray gun, Clint realizes. The one that asshole shot at him. He quickly pats his hands over his body, suddenly afraid that he’s falling into a thousand pieces.

“You’ll know something as soon as we do,” Sunglasses says. He hesitates, then says, “You guys should sleep.”

“Get the hell out,” Tony says, and even Clint can’t disagree with that statement. Sunglasses gets the hell out, and everyone goes back to their thousand yard stare.

Clint pats his chest again. He vaguely remembers being shot at. Remembers that it had hurt like a _bitch_. But he doesn’t remember anything else after that.

Tony is still tapping at the StarkPad, eyes intent on whatever he’s looking at. Clint drifts over to see, hand still pressed to his heart. It’s beating, he faintly realizes, feeling the pulse beneath his fingers. How can he be dead if he has a beating heart?

A video is playing on the StarkPad. It’s gritty and shaky, probably filmed from Tony’s helmet. There’s a dizzying swing of vision, dust and bricks and a flash of the Hulk, and then he sees himself, drawing back on the bow. Clint winces a little bit at his form—elbow too high, it’s honestly _embarrassing—_ and watches as he looses three arrows, one right after the other. He remembers this. He’d shot those, and then behind him...

Sure enough, behind on-screen Clint, a door swings open. On-screen Clint whirls, draws another arrow. The guy raises a gun. It’s huge, big enough to be propped on the guy’s shoulder, and looks vaguely like an RPG but bigger. He aims it at Clint and pulls the trigger as Clint looses the arrow, and then—

And then—

On-screen Clint chokes a little, the expression on his face stunned and pained, and then he disintegrates, like Bruce said. Like that Kansas song, all dust in the wind, he crumbles to the ground, vanishing into the wind. The quiver lands on the sidewalk, and the bow on top of it, and on-screen Clint is gone.

Real Clint stumbles backwards from the video, eyes wide and chest heaving, because what the _actual fuck_ did he just watch?

Tony plays it again, and again, and Clint can’t take his eyes off it. Can’t stop himself from staring as he disintegrates over and over, crumbling to pieces on the sidewalk. He’s still breathing hard, and his heart is pounding in his ears, and it doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense.

“Natasha,” he says, turning from the tablet and rounding on her. It didn’t work before, he has no reason to believe it will this time, but he has to try. He can’t handle this alone. “Nat, please. Please listen to me. I’m right here, Nat, I’m right _here_.”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. Just keeps staring into space and rolling the arrow between her fingers.

Clint falls to his knees at her feet, because he doesn’t know what else to do. He’s still so tired, and he still feels like shit, and he’s—

He’s dead.

He’s a ghost.

“Fuck,” he says, and he buries his face in his hands.

* * *

The team eventually drifts apart, everyone going to their separate floors with barely a word spoken. Cap puts a hand on Nat’s shoulder as he walks past. “You should sleep,” he murmurs to her.

“I don’t think I can,” she says, the first thing Clint has heard her say in hours. She looks up at Cap. “I can’t stop _seeing_ it, Steve. I can’t—”

“You couldn’t have done anything,” he says. “None of us could have. How were we supposed to know?”

“I could have shot that guy.”

“Nat, you didn’t have any time to react. No one did. Clint barely got him with the arrow, and he was the closest.” He shakes his head. “If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. I should have told him to stay high.”

Natasha grabs his hand. “No. No, Steve. Don’t say that.”

“My team, my shots,” Cap says. His eyes shine with tears, but his voice is steady. “This wasn’t on you. I don’t want you thinking that. Not even for a second. And I don’t think Clint would want that either.”

Nat presses her hand to her mouth, and Clint can’t watch anymore. He jackknifes to his feet and walks over to the windows. The city is still lit up below him, like it always is. The world is still turning, and people are still doing things, and Clint is still here. He is still here. Why can’t they see him?

Cap leaves for his rooms, the chime of the elevator breaking the quiet of the lounge. Then it’s just the two of them, like always. “Nat,” Clint says, and he can hear the hopelessness in his own voice.

She rolls the arrow in her fingers as silent tears run down her face. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Clint tells her. “It _wasn’t_ , Nat. I swear.”

Nat gets up and goes to the bar. She grabs one of Tony’s favorite glasses, and his best whiskey, and pours herself way too much. Her hand shakes as she lifts it to her mouth. Some of it sloshes on the counter. “Fuck,” she mutters, setting the glass down. She wipes her hand on her shirt, then sighs as it comes away red-tinged from the blood.

There’s a moment of stillness. Her hand pauses in the air, eyes fixed on the blood staining her skin. Her fingers tremble, and she turns her hand slightly, like she’s examining it for something.

Then she grabs the whiskey glass and hurls it across the room, liquid and all, and watches it shatter against the windows to his left. “FUCK!” she screams, louder than anything he’s ever heard from her, and she slams her palms on the counter. Her breath comes in short little gasps, and she lets out a broken sob before sinking to the floor. She looks absolutely shattered. Clint doesn’t know what to do. He’s never seen her look like this.

Above her, JARVIS’s voice echoes through the speakers. “Miss Romanoff, would you like me to call Captain Rogers?”

“No,” she says after a long pause. “I...no. I’ll clean it up.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“I don’t want to hear more of Steve’s self-flagellating bullshit,” she snaps. “Or anyone’s for that matter. The only person I want to hear from was disintegrated out of existence. So unless you can do something about that...”

There’s a slight pause, and then, “My apologies for disturbing you, Miss Romanoff.”

Nat lets out a bitter laugh and rubs a hand over her face. “Fuck,” she mutters again, and pitches her head backwards against the bar hard enough to make a noise.

Clint stays where he is. He doesn’t know what else to do.

Some time later, the elevator chimes, and Thor comes striding out. He’s bruised, and dirty, but otherwise looks relatively unharmed. Clint lets out a little sigh of relief. Nat finally looks up from where she’s sitting and gets to her feet. “Thor.”

“Romanoff.” He drops his hammer on the couch and collapses next to it.

“Did you find anything?”

“I found the secondary hideout, but I was too late. They had already fled.” He looks pissed, and exhausted. “I was able to retrieve some of their computers and other devices. I gave them to SHIELD.” He rubs his eyes. “Where are the others?”

“Sleeping.”

He eyes her. “Not you?”

“I can’t.”

“No. I suppose not.”

Nat grabs another glass, and pours herself more whiskey. “You want some?”

“I do.” Thor gets up and walks over to the windows. His foot crunches on the glass and he looks down. “What’s this?”

“First attempt.”

“Ah.” He takes a couple steps in Clint’s direction, avoiding the puddle of whiskey.

Clint rolls his shoulders. Some of the aches and pains are starting to go away, at least, which is a minor improvement over his life twenty minutes ago. “Hey, Thor,” he says, only half-heartedly expecting a response.

Thor blinks, then turns his head.

Clint freezes for a second, then steps closer. “Thor. Hey. _Thor_. Can you hear me?”

Another blink. He tilts his head, like he’s trying to make out something faint.

“Thor!” Clint yells as loud as his throat will let him. “Thor, it’s me, it’s Clint. I’m right here, man, I’m right here!”

Natasha steps up next to him, right into Clint, and passes him a glass. “Here,” she murmurs. Then she sees his face. “You okay?”

“I thought I heard something,” Thor says, taking the glass. “A familiar voice. But faintly, as if it was shouting from a great distance.”

“You heard me!” Clint shouts. “It’s me, Thor, it’s Hawkeye! It’s _Clint_! Please, just listen to me! I’m right here!”

“I keep expecting to hear him,” Nat says, sipping her whiskey. “I keep turning around and thinking he’ll be there. Keep waiting for him to come out of the elevator. Or pop out of one of the vents with some stupid joke and smelling like dust—“ She cuts off, tears in her eyes and a sob in her voice, and Thor gently puts his arm around her.

“It happens,” he says. “It will fade, in time.”

“I’m right _here_ ,” Clint says again, but with less vigor this time. “Please.”

Natasha leans her head against Thor. “This sucks.”

“I’m right here.” It’s barely a whisper. Clint’s trembling now, and he wraps his arms around his body to try and keep himself together.

He’s been ignored before—one particularly memorable week Nat had refused to acknowledge his existence—but never like this. And even during that week, all he had to do was go out into the world to be reminded that he still existed. Natasha could ignore him, but the coffee shop would still take his order, and the bartender still signed at him, and he could still bump into people and take up space and be acknowledged.

But no one knows he’s here this time. No matter how much he screams or shouts or begs, they don’t hear him. And the realization that they might not ever hear him again is the worst part.

Hell isn’t a fiery pit of death and destruction. Hell is watching your best friends grieve for your death while you watch and can’t do a damn thing about it.

“This isn’t fair,” he says to Natasha.

She downs the rest of her whiskey in a single gulp and grips the glass tightly. “It’s not fair,” she says. His heart leaps for a single, stupid moment, but she’s not agreeing with him. Her eyes are fixed on the city below, and he has to look away because he can’t stand the pain in her voice. “It’s not fucking _fair_ ,” she says again, and that’s how he learns that ghosts can still cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot), and by [flowerparrish](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/flowerparrish). Thank you!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being a ghost is bullshit, Clint eventually decides, and comes with stupid rules that make no sense. Certain things are solid—walls, doors, floors. He can sit down on chairs, or lay on the couch, or lean on the countertops.
> 
> Other things aren’t solid. People, objects, animals—his hand passes through them like water, with that weird fuzzy feeling accompanying it. He can’t pick anything up, can’t touch somebody to get their attention. Clint’s never been a super touchy guy anyway, but it doesn’t take long before he misses the simple act of brushing up against somebody. The feeling of being somewhere, and having people know it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the new tags please

Natasha ends up falling asleep right there, leaning against Thor. He carefully catches the whiskey glass as it falls from her hand, then picks her up and carries her over to the couch. He lays her down and covers her with a blanket. “Sleep well,” he tells her, smoothing her hair back.

“Thor,” Clint says, reaching out. His hand passes through his arm with that weird, fizzy feeling. Thor actually flinches from this, reaching out to brush Clint’s hand away, but doesn’t show any other reaction.

Clint does it again, but Thor just turns and walks towards the elevator. Clint pauses, unsure if he should follow. He doesn’t want to leave Nat on the couch, but Thor is the closest thing to being heard that Clint has encountered yet, and he doesn’t want to let that go. So he just gives her one last mournful look, then jogs after his teammate. “Thor, wait.”

Thor jabs the button for his floor. Clint reaches out and grabs his wrist. His hand passes through, but Thor flinches again, and pulls his arm back. He holds it up to the elevator light, examining it like there might be a hair or something on it.

“Thor, it’s me. It’s Clint.”

Nothing. No reaction.

“Thor,” Clint says, poking his nose. Thor blinks and rubs at it. “Thor. _Thor_.” He feels like a kid trying to annoy a parent, but he doesn’t know what else to do. “Come on, man. It’s Clint. Look at me. Say something. Anything. _Please_.”

But Thor doesn’t say anything, and the elevator doors open on his floor. Clint follows him out, still trying to get his attention. “Thor!”

Nothing. Abso-fucking-lutely nothing. Clint kicks the wall out of sheer frustration and screams at the top of his lungs. It’s not even words, just a primal expression of rage that scares him more than anything, and all it does is leave him breathless and _more_ exhausted. He kicks the wall again for good measure, then collapses against it. “Come on,” he begs. “Please, just hear me?”

Thor goes into his bathroom and shuts the door.

Clint slides down the wall. He’s too tired to keep standing, and his eyes are burning with tears again. He scrubs furiously at them with the back of his hand and tries _really_ fucking hard to keep himself together. “Breathe,” he mutters, hands fisted in his hair. “Breathe, Hawkeye. Breathe. Come on.”

He counts to himself, a rote count he learned from Tony years ago when they’d had a _very_ drunken discussion about flashbacks and panic attacks. In four. Hold seven. Out eight. In four. Hold seven. Out eight. In four. Hold seven. Out eight. He repeats this until he has a vague feeling of control over himself.

Then the bathroom door opens and Thor emerges, completely buck-ass naked.

“Aw hell,” Clint says, slamming a hand over his eyes. Apparently ghosts can still blush, because his face is on _fire_. Not that he hasn’t seen Thor naked before—and not that the guy doesn’t look good or anything—but Clint wasn’t really prepared for the things he just got an eyeful of, and he’s _very_ sure he doesn’t want to see any more.

He keeps his eyes covered until he hears Thor get under the covers. Then he gets to his feet and walks over to the elevator. He’ll just go back down to the lounge and sit with Nat, then. Better than sitting here and watching naked Thor sleep.

Except the elevator button doesn’t light up at his touch. Clint tries a couple times. His hand can _contact_ the wall, and he can almost feel the button underneath his fingertips, but it doesn’t respond to his command. _Fingerprint commands,_ he belatedly realizes. Of course it’s not going to come. It doesn’t recognize his fingerprint. He doesn’t have a fingerprint. Because he’s a ghost.

“Well shit,” he says, and turns around to look at the room. Thor is snoring already, loud and rhythmic, and Clint scowls at him. “This sucks. This sucks so hard.”

He walks over to the long couch by the window and puts his hand on it. His hand fizzes slightly, but otherwise stays solid. Clint pushes at it a little. His hands can’t grip the fabric underneath him, but he’s not sinking through. Somewhat emboldened by that, he gingerly sits down, ready to spring up at any second should he start falling through it. Last thing he needs is to get stuck in a couch.

He does not get stuck. He can’t rearrange the pillows, or grab the blanket, but he can at least sit on it. So Clint just makes himself as comfortable as he can and tries to fall asleep, hoping against hope that when he wakes up, this will all just be a really terrible nightmare.

* * *

It is not a terrible nightmare. He wakes up early in the morning to Thor moving around—in clothes, thank _god—_ and manages to scramble up in time to follow him into the elevator. Thor doesn’t look any less tired than he did the night before. Clint studies the exhausted way he leans against the wall, and wonders if he managed to get any amount of sleep at all.

Nat is still on the couch. Awake, now, but still under the blanket. She looks over at the elevator as Thor comes out. “Hey,” she says.

“Good morning.” Thor stops at the couch and puts his hand on her shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

Nat just looks at him. “How do you think?”

He winces. “You’re right. Sorry I asked.”

Tony is already in the kitchen, clattering pots and pans around with a kind of forced enthusiasm. “Point Break,” he says. “Did you find anything?”

“No. They had already fled by the time I got there. I retrieved some of their computers, and other things. I gave them to SHIELD.” Thor sits heavily at the table and leans his head on his hand. “Any news on your end?”

Tony shakes his head. “I was up all night with JARVIS, trying to reconfigure the gun they used. We’ve got some kind of idea, but we need more information. The specs SHIELD found were incomplete.” He lays a carton of eggs on the counter and starts cracking them one by one into a giant bowl. “I can rebuild the _outside_ of it, but that’s about it.”

“What’s even the point?” Nat asks, tossing the blanket off. “It’s not going to bring Clint back.”

“It’s not about bringing him back,” Tony says. “It’s about figuring out how they killed him, so we can stop it from happening again.” He cracks another egg, a little more viciously this time. “Forgive me for not wanting to watch any other members of my team disintegrate into dust in front of me.”

“We should be focusing on finding them.” Nat’s voice is cold. “If we find them, then we have the gun in our hands, and you can play with it all you want.”

“Well, unless you have a magic eight ball that can tell us where they are—” Tony whacks his knuckle on the bowl and hisses in pain “—I’m gonna carry on with what I’m doing. You keep moping on the couch.”

Natasha gets up, but Thor holds a hand out. “Stop it,” he says. “Both of you. You are angry, and you are grieving.”

Tony grabs a whisk and starts in on the eggs. “I’m trying,” he says, a little quieter. “I have JARVIS searching world-wide. I have every ear possible to the ground listening for any hint of Hydra. As soon as they rear their ugly heads, we’ll know. But until that point, I can’t do anything. So yes, I’m going to try and figure out how that gun works, so I don’t have to watch the footage of _you_ dying a thousand times over.”

Natasha takes a deep breath. “Fine,” she says, and sits back down.

Clint looks between the three of them. “Please don’t fight,” he says, knowing they won’t hear him. But he has to say it anyway.

Cap and Bruce stumble into the lounge a little later, and Clint suspects that they didn’t get any sleep either. They question Thor, and he tells the story again. Tony serves them all eggs, and everyone politely picks at them until he vanishes into his lab. Then they dump their plates into various trash cans, and set off on whatever their plans are. Clint watches them disperse with an ache in his heart. Natasha stays in the lounge, gripping her plate with white-knuckles until Cap tugs it from her grip. “I’m going to the gym,” he says. “You want to come with?”

“Yes,” she says, and follows him. Left with nothing else to do, Clint tags along.

* * *

Being a ghost is bullshit, Clint eventually decides, and comes with stupid rules that make no sense. Certain things are solid—walls, doors, floors. He can sit down on chairs, or lay on the couch, or lean on the countertops.

Other things aren’t solid. People, objects, animals—his hand passes through them like water, with that weird fuzzy feeling accompanying it. He can’t pick anything up, can’t touch somebody to get their attention. Clint’s never been a super touchy guy anyway, but it doesn’t take long before he misses the simple act of brushing up against somebody. The feeling of _being_ somewhere, and having people know it.

The awful feeling from the first day eventually goes away, and after that he’s pretty much back to his normal self. He doesn’t have to do any of the normal human things, like eat, or drink, or use the bathroom. He doesn’t even need to sleep, although he’s still able to if he wants. The only thing he can do is wander around the Tower and watch his team grieve for him.

Clint thinks about killing himself, but he’s not sure how he’d do it. He can’t pick up a gun. Can’t put a rope around his neck. Jumping off a building might do it, but he’s not really sure, and he doesn’t want to risk being stuck in a more awful state than this.

So he just...exists. And it massively, _massively_ sucks. It’s lonely, and it’s painful, and he hates every single second of it. He has never wanted anything so badly as he wants to hold Natasha’s hand and tell her that he’s okay.

They hold a funeral for him two weeks after he dies. A small affair, just them and a few SHIELD agents at the cemetery. Clint watches from a distance. He can’t bring himself to get any closer. He doesn’t want to see them cry. So he stands at the edge of the graveyard, watches Natasha touch his tombstone, and wishes like hell that he could drink.

“I’m right _here_ ,” he says, but the only thing that hears him is the wind.

They go out afterwards to a bar. Clint doesn’t go with them. He aimlessly wanders the city, uncaring of the crowds or the traffic. Once he stands still and waits for a bus to hit him. It passes through like everything else, but the experience is unnerving enough that he doesn’t repeat it. After that he waits at the crosswalks like everyone else.

At one of them, a small chihuahua barks in his direction. Clint turns around, but there’s no one behind him. When he looks back, the dog barks again. The guy holding the leash snaps at him to be quiet.

“Uh,” Clint says. He takes a couple steps left, then right, and the dog tracks him the whole way. “Can...can you _see_ me?”

The dog barks one more time, like he’s saying yes, and Clint feels tears fill his eyes. “Oh my god,” he mutters, and he drops to the ground. His hand does the usual fizz thing when he reaches out to pet it, but he doesn’t care. “Hi. Hi, buddy. What’s your name? You can see me, can’t you?”

The light turns, and the dog moves with its owner across the street. Clint stays kneeling on the ground, arm still outstretched. “You can see me,” he says again. He’s not sure if it means that he’s not actually dead, or that dogs are just clairvoyant. He wouldn’t be surprised about that last one, honestly. But it _saw_ him, and the wash of relief he feels at that is almost painful.

It’s not just that one dog, either. Clint spends the next few days experimenting, and learns that most animals can still see him, or at least sense him. He can’t pet them, which seems unfair. But it’s nice to be noticed, so he goes out of his way to find as many animals as he can. Even being barked at by dogs is better than being unnoticed at the Tower. Better than watching his team fall apart at the seams.

* * *

A week after his funeral, the team gets called out to a disaster in San Diego. Clint slips aboard the Quinjet with the rest of them. It’s stupid, he knows. He can’t do anything to help. But the idea of watching them go out without him just seems _wrong_ , so he does it anyway.

There’s none of the usual jokes. Even Tony, for all his talent running his mouth, is still subdued. They fly in silence. Only when they get close does Cap finally get up and put the “brief” in mission briefing. Something about fish monsters and the Navy needing help. Clint doesn’t really listen. He’s too busy watching Nat, and noting the barely concealed rage smoldering under her too-calm expression.

The jet lands and the team piles out. Cap does his usual song and dance with the Navy guys, and then he turns to the team. “Okay. Stark, you’re our eyes in the sky. Your priority is bottleneck and containment. Clean up the strays, then monitor the perimeter. Five block radius, max. Anything gets past that, you turn it to ash.”

Both Clint and Tony wince hard at the phrase, and after a moment, Steve’s eyes go wide. “That’s not…” he starts, then trails off. His face is pale. “Anything gets past that, you kill it.”

“Got it,” Tony says, still looking sick, and he takes off.

“Thor, they’ve got ships in the harbor. You and Hulk get out there and smash them to pieces.”

Thor nods. “Ready?” he asks Bruce, and Bruce nods tightly. He starts jogging down the street, trading mild-mannered scientist for raging Hulk in the space of a few footsteps. Thor chases after him.

“Damn,” the Navy guy says, eyes wide. Clint laughs at his expression. He’s used to the Hulk doing his thing. He forgets sometimes what it looks like to others. It really is a hell of a sight.

Cap is unfazed. “Nat, there’s a team pinned down on fifth. I’m going with Captain Jacobs here to help them out. You stay here and assist the ground forces. And Clint—”

He stops himself mid-word, a pained expression crossing his face. Nat makes a small sound, and she turns away, stalking down the street without another word. Captain Jacobs glances after her. “Is she...is she okay?”

“We lost a teammate recently,” Cap says, his eyes closed.

“I heard about that. My condolences.”

Cap yanks his shield off his back and slaps it on his arm. “Let’s go get your team,” he says, and Jacobs points the way.

Clint runs after Nat. He catches up with her after a few moments. She’s walking fast, body language tense and wired, and her face is still that calm, masked expression. Clint almost feels bad for the fish monsters, because everything about her right now is promising blood and violence and mayhem.

There’s screaming from the next street over, and she picks up the pace, breaking into a run. It’s a small group of civilians, and they’re surrounded by three of the _ugliest_ looking things Clint has ever seen in his life. Fish monsters was an accurate description. The _only_ description. They’re insanely tall, with dark, moist-looking scales covering their bodies. The scales are stretched tight over massive rib cages that narrow down at the pelvis before splitting into muscled legs. It gives them a kind of starved-to-death, concentration camp survivor look. Between that, and the protruding red spikes, and the _fangs_...well, Clint is about five seconds from finding out if ghosts can pee themselves in terror.

Nat doesn’t miss a beat. She yanks her gun from her leg holster and sprints down the block. A few steps away, she launches herself into the air and jumps on the back of the closest one, firing three bullets neatly into the back of its neck. It collapses, and she flips off its shoulders, shooting the next one in the face.

“Move!” she screams at the civilians, and they haul ass out of there. Nat dodges a swiping claw and nails the last monster in the ribs. It lets out a horrifying scream and falls to the ground, writhing in pain.

_Blood and violence and mayhem_ , Clint thinks with a grin. God, he loves watching her work. He knew from the moment he saw her through his scope all those years ago that she’d be unstoppable. He could see it written all over her. That was why he’d defied his orders and brought her in. He’s never, _ever_ regretted that decision.

“You’re fantastic,” he tells her. “Seriously.”

Nat shoots the last one in the head, execution-style, and swaps the spent magazine for a fresh one. Then she takes off running down the street again, and Clint follows after. They go through an alley, down a side street, and exit into a town square absolutely _filled_ with the scaly bastards.

“Well, fuck,” Clint says.

Nat grins. It’s a little wild, a little unhinged, and honestly, it scares him a bit. He’s never seen that look on her face before.

“Hey boys,” she says, and the nearest ones turn. “Guess my invite got lost in the mail.”

The fish monsters roar, and Nat leaps into the fray. Clint follows her as best he can, marveling at the sheer amount of destruction she leaves in her wake. She’s like a storm, tearing through them without a hint of hesitation. She’s _beautiful_. Clint watches in awe, and wishes more than anything that he could be right there at her side. Where he’s supposed to be.

A couple of Navy soldiers show up after a few minutes, and they cut down the remaining fish monsters. Nat ducks behind their covering fire and pauses to rest against a bench. “Good to see you,” she says to one of the soldiers. “Mind if I borrow one of those guns?”

Across the square, one of the fish monsters roars and literally rips a soldier in half. “Jesus!” Clint yells, running in that direction before he remembers he can’t do anything. His hands ache for his bow, or a gun. Hell, he’d sell his soul for a fucking pointed stick at this point. This ghost thing is bullshit, he could be _helping_ , and instead he’s forced to just watch—

Nat snarls something and grabs a rifle, blowing the monster’s head off in a spray of bullets. It collapses to the ground, and another one stands up. It’s got some kind of weapon on its arm, some sort of blue glowstick-looking thing. As Clint watches, the weapon charges, the blue changing from dark to bright, eerily similar to Loki’s scepter. The sight sends a flash of fear through Clint. “Nat!” he shouts, running forward out of habit. He lunges at the monster, hands outstretched to push the weapon away. There’s the usual fizz under his hand, but also something more solid, more _tangible—_

There’s a ringing noise, and then a shield comes out of nowhere. It slams through Clint and into the monster’s arm. Cap follows a moment later, knocking the monster to the ground with a single blow.

“You okay?” he calls to Nat. He yanks the shield out with a gross squelching sound and slaps it back on his arm.

“I’m fine,” she says, wiping guts off her face with a disgusted expression. “Thanks.”

“We’re almost done,” he says, gesturing at the carnage around the square. “Thor’s wrapping up the last of them. Go ahead and head back to the jet. I’m gonna find Jacobs.”

“He was over there, last I saw him.” Nat points north. “Everyone else, are they—”

“Everyone’s okay,” Cap says. There’s no hiding the relief in his voice. “Stark took a hit to the head, but he’ll be fine.” He offers a hand and pulls Nat to her feet. “Go on back, Nat. I’ll take care of this.”

Clint is hardly listening to this. He stares at his hands. He’d _touched_ it. He’d felt the monster under his fingers, slightly cool and a little slimy and very gross. He’d actually, really touched it.

Hadn't he?

“This makes no sense,” he tells the corpse. “Why can I touch _you_ , and not Nat? That’s not even fair!”

The fish monster stares at him with dead eyes and doesn’t answer. Clint sighs and gets to his feet, then trails after Nat. He doesn’t really want to be left behind in San Diego; it would take him forever to get home.

* * *

The team slowly finds their rhythm without Clint. He understands it, in a way. They can’t grieve him forever, he knows, and it’s dangerous for them to fight like he’s still there when he’s not.

Still, it hurts. A sick little part of him wants to pretend that he’s _so_ important that they can’t function without him. He hates that part of himself, but when he watches them fight so well without him...well, it makes him wonder if he was really necessary at all.

That’s not to say they’re completely whole without him. Bruce constantly has this depressed look on his face, and he’s more volatile than usual. Tony spends hours in his labs, trying to rebuild the gun that disintegrated Clint. Most days he’s down there so long that Bruce has to literally drag him out and force him to eat. Cap alternates between hovering protectively over everybody, and destroying punching bags in the gym. Thor channels his grief into battles, flying into fights without backup or letting the team know.

Nat is on the razor’s edge too, precariously balanced between being tolerable and biting everyone’s head off. It reminds Clint of her early SHIELD days, and how she’d been so tightly wound all the time. Clint keeps a wary eye on her, just waiting for her to snap and possibly murder someone. Probably Cap, judging by way she looks at him every time he tries to get her to talk about her feelings.

Clint keeps going on the missions with them, hoping to recreate whatever happened when he touched the fish monster. But he can’t get it to work, and after a while, he just stops trying. _It was just in your mind_ , he tells himself. _You didn’t actually touch it. You just wanted to. Cap’s the one who knocked it away._

Three months after he dies, the team finally gets wind of a Hydra hideout. They go in with a vengeance, and Clint tags along. Even if he can’t help, he wants to see what they find.

It’s not much. They find an old base, some “classified” material that turns out to mean nothing at all, and a computer with a looped video recording of the battle in New York, cut and edited to show Clint’s death in horrific detail.

“They’re taunting us,” Cap says tightly, gripping the table so hard. “Those... _assholes_.”

“Language,” Clint says, at the same time as Tony and Natasha.

There’s a moment where the two of them grin at each other, sharing a look, and it twists Clint’s heart more than anything else. He wants to be in on that. He wants to crack jokes and smile at Nat and make fun of Cap.

He takes a deep breath and turns away, trying to get himself under control. Not like they can _see_ him cry, but it’s habit.

“Nothing useful,” Thor says, coming back into the room. He’s breathing hard, and his eyes are wild. “ _Nothing_. They set this up. They wanted us to come here.”

Nat points at the video. “We know.”

Thor watches it play once. Then without missing a beat, he raises Mjolnir and smashes the computer into pieces. “Let’s go. There is nothing for us here.”

“Classic,” Tony says. “Good thing I downloaded a copy of that.”

“Thor’s right,” Nat says. “Let’s get Hulk and go. There’s nothing here. They just want to rub it in.”

Clint trails them back to the jet and watches as they dejectedly strap into their seats. No one says a word on the way back. He looks around at their devastated expressions, and it hits him, suddenly, that this is it for him. He’s going to spend the rest of his life—death?—watching them be in pain like this. Even if they figure out what happened, they don’t know he’s here, and he can’t tell them. Which means they can’t bring him back. If it’s even possible to bring him back at all.

Clint swallows hard and rubs his eyes. “It’s not fair,” he says. He’s said that sentence more times in the past three months than he has in his entire life, but he doesn’t know what else _to_ say.

They land back at the tower, and he follows the rest of them out. There’s no team dinners anymore—there hasn’t been since he died—and so everyone just kind of shuffles off to their own floor without a second glance. Clint stays in the lounge and stares out at the window. He can almost feel the coldness of the glass beneath his fingertips if he really concentrates, and he tries to let that ground him.

He has to leave. There’s no way around it. If he stays here, he’s going to go insane. He’ll turn into some psycho poltergeist or something. He doesn’t want to watch them grieve, and he doesn’t want to watch them move on, and so he needs to go. Haunt the streets of New York City or something. But he can’t stay here in the Tower. Not like this. It’s going to kill him.

“I have to go,” he says, and he wishes more than anything that someone knew enough to tell him goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot), and by [flowerparrish](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/flowerparrish). Thank you!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He expects his hand to sink through, like it does with everything else. It’s just reflex, one he apparently hasn’t been able to train out of himself. But his fingers make contact, and wrap around the warm skin, and the shock of _that_ makes him rip his hand back like it’s been burned.
> 
> “What the fuck,” James says.
> 
> “What the _fuck_ ,” Clint echoes, staring at his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fills my "bucky as hawkeye" square for WHB, O3.

Haunting the streets of New York City is a lonely, yet interesting experience. Clint’s lived here for most of his life, ever since he joined up with SHIELD, but he feels like this is the first time he’s ever really _seen_ the city. He knows the area around the Tower, of course, and SHIELD headquarters, and his old apartment. But the rest is new to him. And with nothing else to do, Clint sets about exploring.

He starts with the touristy things. The one upside to being a ghost is no entry fees, so he spends a night in the observation deck of the Statue of Liberty, and another in the Rockefeller Center. The Empire State Building is cool, although he only does that one once. There’s a strange feeling in his stomach the first time he leans over the deck and looks at the city below. Clint’s obviously not afraid of heights, but the urge he feels to _jump_ scares him. He sticks to the ground attractions after that.

Every few weeks he goes back to the Tower, just to see how they’re doing. They’re better, he thinks, than they were. Nat looks a little less on edge, and Banner seems less likely to Hulk out at any moment. On one of his visits he walks in on a team dinner, and although his empty chair is obvious, they don’t seem as broken about it as they have been. Or if they are, they don’t show it. The dinner is more subdued than the usual affair, but they talk, and they smile, and Tony even cracks a couple jokes. Clint very pointedly does not think about how this makes him feel.

The biggest downside of being a ghost—other than, you know, _all of it_ —is that he can’t _do_ anything. His wanderings take him all over the city, and he sees a lot of shit happen. But he can’t do anything to help. He can only watch as people go about their lives, like he’s just an uninvolved observer. It especially sucks when it’s something he would have stopped before.

He’s walking one night through Bed-Stuy when he stumbles upon three guys in matching maroon tracksuits surrounding a younger black woman in an alley behind a tall building. Clint pauses at the mouth of the alley, barely feeling the rough bricks under his hand. He doesn’t like the look of this.

The three guys are all big, beefy dudes with thick arms and thicker Russian accents. “Bro,” the middle one says, stepping closer to the woman. “You no pay rent? Then you no live here.”

“I _paid_ the rent,” the woman snaps. She’s holding a child in her arms. “I paid a year in advance!”

“Rent costs more now, bro. You gotta pay difference.” One of the tracksuits slaps a baseball bat in his hands. “You pay up, or we mess you up.”

“That’s not legal!” The woman looks on the verge of tears, but there’s a determined set to her shoulders. Clint looks around, uncertain what to do. He’s pretty sure these guys are about to beat this woman up, and he can’t do anything to stop it.

“He owns building, bro. Is all legal. Can do what we want.” Another slap of the bat. “You gonna pay us, bro?”

“Hey _bro_ ,” says another voice. Clint looks up. There’s a man standing at the other end of the alley, dimly illuminated by the streetlights. He’s a little bit shorter than Clint, with chin-length hair, and a furious expression. He’s wearing a zipped-up leather jacket and jeans, and the whole thing definitely adds to the menacing air he has around him. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”

“Bro,” one of the tracksuits says. “Who’s this, bro?”

Clint wants to take a moment to question the excessive use of “bro” going on here, but then the guy steps further into view, and he practically has to pick his jaw up off the ground. He is _hot_. Like, unfairly hot. Brilliant blue eyes that he can see from here, five-o-clock shadow framing an intense jawline, lips that Clint _really_ wants to feel against his own. “Goddamn,” he breathes. “I just... _goddamn_.”

Other nice thing about being a ghost—he can blatantly stare at attractive guys without it getting awkward for everybody. And he wants to stare at this particular one until he dies.

Well. For a long time, anyway.

The tracksuits are laughing. “Bro,” the left one says. “She no pay rent? We kick her out.”

“She paid the rent,” the guy corrects. “I was there, remember? I read the contract for her.”

“Rent’s gone up, bro. Gotta make up the difference.”

“That’s not legal,” the guy says, stepping even closer. “And even if it was, that doesn’t give you the right to menace her with baseball bats. Especially not while she’s got a kid with her.”

The left one turns to face him. “This not your business, bro. Get out.”

“No way.” He’s close enough to be within reach of them now, but the tracksuits don’t look worried. _Putting way too much faith in your baseball bats,_ Clint thinks, eyeing the guy’s stance, and the way he’s positioned himself. It looks casual, but there’s pretty clearly a few years of experience behind it. If Clint was these guys, he’d be gearing up for a fight. “I told you guys. Pick on someone your own size.”

“Someone like you, bro?”

“Sure,” the guy says, and he snaps his fist into the right one’s nose.

Things happen fast after that. The tracksuit stumbles backwards, holding his face, and the guy whirls, nailing the left one with a perfect kick to the chest.

“Bro!” the middle one yells, backing away with his bat raised defensively. “What the hell, bro?”

“I told you,” the guy says, shaking out his hand. “Leave her alone. You wanna fight someone, _bro_ , you’re gonna fight me.” He smiles. It’s not friendly.

The one holding his nose grabs the other guy, and the three of them back down the alley towards Clint. “We be back, bro. This not the end.” His voice is nasally, and there’s blood pouring from between his fingers. He points at the guy. “You a dead man, bro. You hear me?”

“I hear you,” the guy says. “You’re welcome to give it a try.” He takes a couple steps forward, and the tracksuits all hightail it out of the alley, walking right through Clint.

“Thank you, James,” the woman says. She’s shaking, arms still wrapped tight around her baby. “You didn’t have to do that.”

The guy—James—shrugs. “Wasn’t any big deal. They’re like all bullies. Cut and run at the first sign of someone bigger.” He puts his hand on her arm. “Kid okay?”

“He’s fine.” She tries for a smile. “They’ll be back, you know.”

“It’s not the first time. I’ll handle it.” He motions towards the door. “Come on, Simone. Let’s get the little guy inside.”

Simone nods and reaches for the handle. James looks around the alley one last time, checking for danger. His gaze pauses on Clint, and for a brief moment they stare at each other. Then James scowls and disappears inside after Simone.

_Did he just...look at me?_

Clint holds his hand up to the light. Still translucent, still with the same shimmery edge around them. Still a ghost, then. “You’re imagining things,” he tells himself. “Stop it.”

He casts one last look back at the door, then turns and keeps walking down the street. No point in dwelling on what happened. Not like he can do anything about it anyway.

* * *

Clint is leaning against the arch in Washington Square Park, jealously watching a kid devour a hot dog. As a ghost, he doesn’t need to eat, but _god_ he misses it. He would give just about anything to sit on a bench and tear into some tacos or something. He misses the flavors, and the textures, and the simple enjoyment of just sitting down with friends over some good food.

He’s debating walking through it with his mouth open to see if he can taste it—like the ghosts in _Harry Potter_ —when a yellow lab goes bounding past him, leash trailing through the grass. Clint instinctively moves to grab it, but it passes right through his hand. Two seconds later, a guy in a black leather jacket comes sprinting after it. “Lucky!” he yells. “Lucky, get _back_ here!”

A woman a few benches down lunges at the leash and snags it just in time. Lucky’s bid for freedom ends with a sharp yelp. “Here you go,” she says, offering it to the guy as he jogs up to her.

“ _Thank_ you,” he says, and Clint suddenly recognizes him. It’s been a week since the alley, but James was distinctive enough that he stuck in Clint’s mind, and that jawline is unmistakable. “He got spooked a couple blocks back, tore the leash out of my damn hand. Thank you so much.”

“No worries,” she says, smiling at him. She pats her own dog, a little Pomeranian who’s sitting patiently between her feet. Lucky sniffs interestedly. James pulls him back. “Sometimes they just have a mind of their own.”

“Yeah,” James says. He kneels down and rubs Lucky’s head. “Don’t do that to me, you dumb mutt,” he says, sounding more relieved than mad. “Thought I’d lost you.”

Lucky barks in his face, then licks it. James smiles. It’s a nice smile, Clint thinks, admiring the way it lights up his face. Makes him look a little less intimidating.

“Thanks again,” he says to the lady. He tugs Lucky’s leash. “Come on, you. Let’s finish the walk. I have to go to work at some point today.”

Clint starts to follow him, but the Pomeranian starts barking at him, and he gets distracted. By the time he pulls his attention back, James and Lucky are both out of sight. Clint makes a half-hearted attempt to find him, then gives up and goes back to his daydreams about tacos.

* * *

Two weeks after that, he’s hanging out on a bench in Prospect Park, enjoying the early morning sunlight as it reflects off the water. It’s promising to be a very nice day. The kind of day that if he wasn’t dead, he’d be dragging Natasha out for a picnic somewhere. She always made a token protest, but he knows she liked doing that as much as he did. It was nice to just sit together and eat without worrying about being attacked by anything.

Well. Most of the time. There _was_ that one incident with the naked guy, but they promised to never mention that to each other again.

A dog barks to his left, and Clint cracks an eye open to see a yellow lab eagerly straining at its leash, trying to eat a pigeon. Holding the leash is none other than James, with a coffee in his free hand and wearing a tired, _it’s-too-early-for-this-shit_ expression.

_This is getting ridiculous,_ Clint thinks. _Eight million people live in this city, how is it I keep running into this one guy?_

Not that he’s complaining—now that he’s seen him in the light of day, Clint can confirm he is _definitely_ hot—but still. It’s at least a little weird.

James succeeds in pulling Lucky away from the pigeon, and comes over to the bench where Clint is sitting. He drops down heavily next to Clint and takes a sip of his coffee. Lucky reluctantly follows, padding over to sniff at the flowers next to the bench.

Clint smiles at Lucky. He’s cute. He’s got one eye missing, and a dopey look on his face. “Hey buddy,” he says, and the dog looks up at him.

“You can pet him if you want,” James says, and Clint looks around to see who he’s talking to. But it’s early, and the park is relatively empty in this portion except for some joggers going by. “He doesn’t bite. He’ll nibble at you, but it’s just playful. Just tell him no.”

“Uh,” Clint says, looking around again, because this guy _can’t_ possibly be talking to him. No one has talked directly to him in almost six months, not counting dog barks.

But there’s no one else around. He’s not on a phone. He doesn’t have an earpiece in. It’s just him, and Clint, and the dog.

“You don’t have to, though,” James adds. “Just letting you know.”

“Uh,” Clint says again, fumbling for words. “Are you...are you talking to me?”

James looks directly at him. “You see anyone else around?”

Clint stares at him. He’s aware on some level that his mouth is hanging open, and he probably looks like a drooling idiot, but he doesn’t really care. His brain is too busy trying to process this sudden turn of events.

“Dude,” James says, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “Are you okay? You high or something?”

“I’m...”

Clint hasn’t had a full conversation with anyone but himself since he died. He wasn’t particularly good at conversations before, unless they were with the team. His people skills are rusty as fuck, and the shock of being _spoken_ _to_ isn’t helping.

But James is staring at him, and Clint has to say _something_. So he clears his throat and says, “No...I’m not high.”

“Okay,” James says, shifting away slightly. “Well. I’m gonna go.”

Without thinking, Clint reaches out and grabs his wrist. “Wait.”

He expects his hand to sink through, like it does with everything else. It’s just reflex, one he apparently hasn’t been able to train out of himself. But his fingers make contact, and wrap around the warm skin, and the shock of _that_ makes him rip his hand back like it’s been burned.

“What the fuck,” James says.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Clint echoes, staring at his hand.

James grabs his dog and hustles away, looking back over his shoulder with a very weirded-out expression. Clint barely notices. He’s still staring at his hand, which is still semi-translucent and shimmery around the edges. _But I touched him. I touched him_.

Is he not dead anymore? Does he have a body again?

Clint scrambles to his feet and takes off running. There’s an older couple walking along the path, and Clint barrels right up to them. “Hey!” he shouts, waving his arms. “Hey!”

They walk through him. Just like always.

He tries again, a couple different people, and it’s the same old song and dance. No one sees him. No one touches him.

But James had. James had looked at him, and talked to him, and Clint had been able to touch him. _Something_ had been different.

“What the fuck,” he says again.

He turns around, but James and Lucky are nowhere to be seen. Clint spins desperately. “Come back,” he says, scanning the slowly growing mass of people. “You _saw_ me. Come back.”

But James doesn’t come back. Clint sits heavily on the bench, his mind racing. _You touched him. He talked to you. He actually talked to you._

There are tears in his eyes, he realizes. He swipes at them. “Get it together,” he mumbles at himself, but the tears keep coming. It hits him, then, how isolated he’s been. New York City has enough people that he can still be part of crowds no matter where he goes, but it’s not the same when no one knows he’s there. The last few months have basically been like an intense version of the silent treatment from the whole world, and until this moment, he hadn’t realized how painful it was. How inhuman it made him feel.

Clint takes a few moments to reset himself, then wipes at his eyes one more time. “Okay,” he mutters, looking out at the press of people walking by. “Okay. I gotta find him. I need—I have to find him again.”

He tries to remember where the apartment building was. He knows it was in Bed-Stuy, but he can’t recall exactly. Alternatively, he could just keep wandering the parks until they run into each other. It’s happened twice now. Third time’s a charm, right?

“Nah,” he says, getting to his feet. “Apartment’s the best shot. Find the apartment, find the hot guy, convince him you’re not a crazy person.” He rubs a hand through his hair and sighs. “Just tell him you’re a ghost who hasn’t spoken to anyone in six months, and that’s why you grabbed him like a psycho.”

_Right, because_ that _will convince him you’re not a crazy person._

“Shut up,” he mutters, and starts walking.

* * *

He spends most of the day searching before he finds the apartment. He’s pretty sure it’s the right one, anyway. It looks the same. He hesitates outside for a while, unsure but unwilling to walk away from it. Then the woman from that first night comes out the front door, two kids in tow this time. “We’re going to be late,” she says, tugging them down the street. “Come on.”

Clint settles onto the steps and leans his head against the bricks. He’ll hang out here for a while , see if James shows up or not. Not like he’s got anything better to do.

Sure enough, a few hours later, James comes walking up the sidewalk with a paper bag tucked under his arm. He stops when he sees Clint. “You.”

“Me,” Clint says, getting to his feet. “Uh. Hi.”

James narrows his eyes and swaps the grocery bag over to his right arm. His left fist clenches. “What are you doing here? How the hell did you find me?”

Too late, Clint suddenly realizes what this looks like, and scrambles to come up with a reasonable explanation as to how he knows where James lives. “Oh. Oh, shit. I wasn’t—I’m not following you or anything—I just wanted—“ He stops, realizing none of this is coming out right. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“For grabbing me in the park, or for stalking me to my apartment?”

Clint rubs his head and winces. “Uh. Both?”

“Get out of here,” James says. “Now. Leave me alone.” He shifts his weight forward slightly. Clint’s taller than he is, but James has so much raw presence that it more than makes up for the difference. “If I ever see you again—”

“Bro!”

Clint and James both turn around. It’s the tracksuit guys again, seven of them this time, including the three from that one night. Packing more than baseball bats, too. Clint can see at least three H&K submachine pistols, along with a nice mix of Glocks, and even an antique looking shotgun. They pile out of a van and circle around in a loose semi-circle.

“These guys again?” Clint asks. “What’s their problem?”

“Me, mostly.” James turns to take them in. “Let’s not cause a scene, guys.”

“You cause scene first, bro,” one of them says. It’s a bald guy with a handlebar mustache. Clint squints at him, realizes he’s wearing a necklace with a little submachine gun on it. _Charming_. “You hit my cousins. You throw first punch, bro.”

“Ivan,” James says, like he’s greeting an old friend. “Long time no see. Where you been?”

Ivan scowls. “You know where I been, bro.”

“I do,” James agrees. “And I would apologize for getting you deported, but I’m not really sorry.” He shrugs. “Anyway. Your guys were threatening to beat up an innocent woman, Ivan. All I did was direct their attention elsewhere.”

Ivan turns to the guy with a bandage over his nose. “This true, Nik?”

Nik shuffles uncomfortably and mutters something in Russian.

“No,” James says. “Tell him the truth, Nik. That’s not what happened.”

Ivan looks shocked. “You know Russian, bro?”

“Don’t look so shocked, Ivan. I know lots of things. Here’s what actually went down. I was coming home from work, and ran into your boys here threatening a woman while she was holding her baby. I told them to pick on someone their own size, they decided to be assholes, so I dealt with them.” He points at Nik. “I punched him in the nose, kicked some other guy in the chest, and then they ran away like the cowards they are.”

Ivan scowls at Nik, who looks even more uncomfortable. “Why you do this, bro?”

Nik lets loose with a long stream of Russian that includes a couple very rude gestures at James. Clint snickers. “What’s he saying?”

“Trying to excuse himself,” James mutters, eyes on the tracksuits. “They’re not supposed to be threatening tenants like that. They’re trying to legally buy out the building. I don’t know why.”

Ivan turns and points a stubby finger at James. “Okay, bro. Here is deal.” He cracks his knuckles. “We no bother woman anymore, bro. You right about her. She pay rent. She good for the year.”

“Great,” James says. “Glad to hear it.”

“In return, you let my cousins hit you back, bro.”

James stares at him for a second, then bursts out laughing. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No kid, bro. You let my cousins hit you, we leave woman alone. Good deal, bro.”

“If your guys wanted to hit me, they should’ve tried that night, _bro_.” James shakes his head. “I was right to stop them, and you know it. You’re lucky I didn’t involve the cops.”

“Uh,” Clint says. “You realize they have guns, right?”

He’s not concerned for himself, but he’s pretty sure James isn’t impervious to bullets. But James doesn’t seem to be listening. He sets the bag of groceries down on the steps and moves forward, closer to the group. “Okay. Here’s the plan.”

Ivan looks stunned, like he wasn’t expecting James to actually agree. “Bro?”

“The three from that night,” James says. “ _Only_ those three. No one else interferes. One shot each.” He smiles. It’s not friendly. “If they’re brave enough, anyway.”

Nik looks even more nervous. He’s practically shaking. He tugs on Ivan’s arm and says something in Russian. Ivan snarls something back. Clint watches them exchange words with interest, trying to imagine the conversation.

_Please don’t make me hit the scary guy._

_You will hit the scary guy._

_He already broke my nose._

_You will hit the scary guy, or I will hit you._

Clint snickers. James looks sideways at him, but then Ivan shoves Nik forward. “Dimitri. Michail. Go.”

“One shot,” James says again. He slides a foot backwards, widening his stance. He’s definitely been in fights before, Clint thinks. “Who’s first?”

Nik throws a punch. It’s weak, and pathetic, barely glancing off James’s jaw. He lets his head roll with it. “There,” Nik mutters, and backs up. James smirks again.

Dimitri’s punch is a little more solid, a single fist to the gut. James takes it with a muffled grunt, doubling over slightly. Michail takes advantage of the moment to nail James on the other side of his head. James hits the ground with a hiss of pain and puts a hand on the sidewalk, bracing himself.

“Alright,” he says, spitting out some blood. “Got it out of your system now?”

“Shut up,” Michail says, and he kicks James in the groin.

Clint winces. James bites off a strangled yell and curls himself up. The rest of the tracksuits laugh derisively. “You leave my boys alone, bro,” Ivan orders him, slapping his baseball bat in his hand. “Or we make it worse for everyone. Not just lady.”

James struggles back up to his knees. He looks a little green around the gills, and there’s blood running down his chin from where he bit his lip. “I’ll leave them alone if they leave us alone,” he says, wheezing a little. “Stop threatening my neighbors.”

Ivan says something in Russian, and the tracksuits all pile back into the van. The last one in flips James off before closing the door. The van pulls away.

“Why’d you let them do that?” Clint asks, kneeling down. “I saw the way you were standing. You know how to fight. You could’ve taken them out.”

“I could’ve,” James says. “But as you so astutely pointed out, they had guns. And Ivan might look like a fumbling bastard, but he’s got some smart people backing him up. It’s better to let them think they’ve won this round then let Simone and her kids become a target. I’m not that prideful.” He holds out a hand. “Help me up, will you?”

Clint reaches out a hand and pulls him to his feet. The thrill of touching another person lights up his brain in all the best ways, and he has to force himself to let go at the appropriate moment.

“I’m surprised they didn’t go for you,” James says as he picks up his groceries. “They don’t care much for bystanders.”

Clint shrugs. “I’m kind of an invisible guy,” he says. “Besides, they were pretty focused on you.”

“Yeah.” James spits again. “Fucking bastards.” He looks at Clint. “Anyway. You never answered my question.”

“What question?”

“How the hell did you know where to find me?”

Aw, shit. Clint scrambles in his mind to come up with an answer. Finally he says, “I don’t live far from here myself. I was just in the neighborhood and I saw you walking out of here. Wasn’t following you or anything. I just wanted to apologize. For the park.”

“Okay. Apology accepted.” James reaches for the door. “You can go now.”

“I lost someone,” Clint blurts out, desperate to keep him talking. Desperate for any kind of conversation. “A...friend. He died. I was thinking about him this morning.”

James’s eyes soften a little. “I remind you of him or something?”

“No, I just...I haven’t really spoken to anyone in awhile. I wasn’t expecting to have a conversation.” He swallows, shifts his feet. “I didn’t mean to grab you like that, though. I am sorry.”

James studies him, head tilted to the side. Clint feels like those eyes are piercing right through him. It has the interesting effect of making him want to both hide and and stand there staring at him forever.

Finally, James breaks the moment and pulls the door open. “You wanna come up?”

Clint blinks. “Huh?”

“We do a potluck thing on the roof most nights,” he says. “The whole building comes out. It’s a good time. You can come, if you want. Should be starting about now.”

Clint wants to. God, he wants to. But James is the only person who can see him, and it’s going to get real awkward if he starts trying to introduce him to people. So he regretfully shakes his head and says, “I got...I got a thing to do. But thank you.”

“Alright,” James says, unbothered. He steps inside the building. “No worries. Have a good night, then. Sorry about your friend.”

“I’m Clint,” Clint blurts out. “Clint Barton.”

“James Barnes.” He smiles. “See you around, Clint.”

The door closes behind him. Clint stays where he is for a moment, eyes fixed on the door. Then he lets out a shaky breath and has to brace himself against the brick wall. There’s too many emotions inside him to sort out. All he can do is breathe, and repeat those words in his head, over and over and over.

_See you around._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot), and by [flowerparrish](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/flowerparrish). Thank you!


	4. chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It occurs to him, at some point, that he could use James to tell his friends he’s still alive. It would be easy to prove to James that he’s a ghost—he can stick his hand through something, or walk through someone—and then convince James to come with him to Avengers tower. The team would interrogate him, but all they have to do is ask some things only Clint would know. It probably wouldn’t take much. And then—
> 
> And then what?

What Clint _wants_ to do is stand outside of James’s apartment all day—and possibly all night—until he comes back out again. But while Clint may be a ghost, he does still retain some iota of social skills, and he recognizes that would be creepy as fuck. So he makes himself leave.

He wanders back towards the East River, eventually ending up in the Navy yard. The day is starting to wind down, but there’s still people working here. He dodges a car out of instinct and walks towards the dry docks, not really thinking about where he’s going.

There’s a guy waiting against a streetlamp about thirty years in front of him. He’s wearing a trench coat and a fedora, which is really the only reason Clint notices him. He snickers about it for a second. “What spy movie did you fall out of?” he asks, pausing next to him. “I mean I’m no fashion guy myself, but that outfit...that’s a _choice_ , man.”

The guy ignores him, predictably. But then he waves to someone behind Clint, and says, “ _Guten Tag!_ ”

Clint turns to see a woman walking up behind him. Tall, blond, pale skin, blood red lips. “ _Guten Tag,_ ” she says, and follows it up with more German that he doesn’t understand. They shake hands and start walking back towards the street, continuing their discussion.

Clint watches them go, something vaguely uneasy prickling in the back of his mind. Then he jogs after them. On some level he’s aware it’s probably racist—country-ist? American-ist?—to hear German and immediately assume Hydra. For all he knows, they could be meeting up here to have a lovely discussion about trench coats or something.

And yet.

He follows them all the way to Flushing Avenue, where they get into a car. Clint walks through them and gets in first. It’s a nice, fancy car with a divide between the front and back seats. Not quite a limo, but it’s at least roomy.

The woman sits on him. Or in him, technically. Clint’s used to people moving through his ghost, but it’s not usually this prolonged. His whole body gets that fuzzy feeling, and it’s uncomfortable enough that he slides away and moves to sit in the middle of the seat. The man sits on his other side. “ _Geh_ ,” he says to the driver, and the car takes off.

“It is good to see you,” the woman says in English, smiling at him. Her voice is light, with a hint of an accent.

“You as well,” says the man.

They lapse back into German after that, and Clint doesn’t know enough to follow the conversation properly. He picks up a couple words here and there. _Soldier. Time._ Something that he thinks might either be _church_ or _sanctuary_. It’s not enough to make sense, and eventually he just stops listening and watches the city flash by.

He tunes back in when the man sticks a hand through his abdomen to rest on her knee. “ _Liebchen_ ,” he says, and there’s a _look_ in his eye. He slides his hand further up her thigh. “ _Ich habe dich vermisst_.”

“Oh no,” Clint says, turning to look at her. “Please don’t.”

She echoes him, leans toward him right through Clint, and that’s it, he’s out. He throws himself forward, scrambling down into the footwell. He can’t go any further than that, so he situates himself on the floor and scowls up at them. “Really? Right here? Right now?”

_Yes_ is the resounding answer to that question. It doesn’t get to full-on sex, but by the time the car slows, there’s _way_ more skin showing than Clint ever wanted to see. It’s like Thor’s room all over again. He knows he’s _literally_ a captive audience, but he still feels vaguely like a pervert for being here. So he keeps his face buried in his knees and his hands over his ears until the car is completely stopped in front of a fancy hotel.

A door opens. “ _Danke_ ,” the woman says to the driver through the divide, and then she slides out after the man. Clint watches them go, his face still red and heated.

The man reaches for the door, and Clint scrambles up. “Shit—wait!” But he’s too slow, and the door slams in his face. The driver waits until they go inside the hotel, and then he pulls away from the curb.

“Shit,” Clint says again, putting his hand on the door. But cars apparently count as something solid, because his hand just presses up against it, then unhelpfully through the handle. “Come on!”

He resigns himself to driving to god-knows-where, and just settles into the backseat. Not a Hydra meeting, then. Just two people meeting up. Probably for an affair, judging by the secrecy and the making out in the backseat. Nothing nefarious about it at all. Which means he trapped himself in here for no damn reason..

“Well,” he says, laying down to sprawl in the backseat. “Not like you’ve got anything better to do.” Which is annoying, but true.

It’s funny, in a way. When he was with the Avengers, he constantly bitched about wanting a day off. He was busy _all_ the time. If he wasn’t on a mission, he was working with SHIELD, or training, or doing various Hawkeye things around the tower. Now he has all the time in the world, and it fucking _sucks_. If he could go back in time, he’d tell his undead self to stop bitching about shit and enjoy it while it lasts.

If he could go back in time, he’d do a lot of things, honestly. Talk to Nat, for one. Tell her with actual words how much he loves her. She knows—he _knows_ she knows—but he’s never said it to her. Not out loud. He should have.

He’d talk to Cap, too. Maybe invite him out for drinks or something, get him to loosen up a little. Clint’s never been real fond of the guy, but he thinks that might have been based on some unfair assumptions. Cap’s a good guy, all things considered. Just constantly stressed. Probably weighed down by the whole Captain America mantle, not to mention his tendency to take responsibility for absolutely everything. Which Clint is not exactly innocent of either, so he really shouldn’t be poking fun at him for it.

“I’m totally gonna take him out for a beer,” he says. “Play some pool with him.” He holds his hand up and watches the sun shine through it. “He’d probably be good at that.” He doesn’t know why the thought hasn’t occurred to him before, honestly. “Oh man, we could totally hustle someone too. No one would ever suspect him, it’s genius.”

_Yeah, dumbass, except for the part where you’re a ghost and he can’t see you._

Well. There’s that little issue, yes.

“Maybe in the next life,” he sighs, dropping his hand down and trying not to think too hard about that statement.

* * *

The driver ends up taking him all the way to New Jersey, which offends Clint on a personal level. Annoyed, he manages to find a train to take him back to the city. It’s close to midnight by the time he walks out of the train station.

A half hour of walking south puts him in the vicinity of Washington Square Park again. Clint goes a couple blocks past it, then pauses to watch a group of tipsy college kids stumble up the street towards him. They’re laughing, and passing a bottle of cheap tequila back and forth. Clint smiles a little at the sight. He used to do that with Barney when they were in the circus. On weekends, they’d take a couple bucks, buy the cheapest liquor they could find, and get drunk out of their minds.

Sometimes Barney would sneak him into a bar and they’d hustle darts for money. It was always fun to play the helpless little kid, wide-eyed and unsure. He’d let the guys show him what to do, then miss the first couple rounds on purpose. Then he’d make some outlandish bet, and nail the next one perfectly. The looks on their faces were always priceless. They’d turn to Barney, who’d shrug in a _what-can-you-do_ kind of way, and then they’d begrudgingly pay up. If they ever got belligerent about it, Clint would just flash his most innocent smile and say something along the lines of _you wouldn’t rip off a kid, would you?_ It always worked—something about his blue eyed, blond hair look melted even the most rugged of guys back then.

Christ, he _must_ be lonely if he’s missing those days. Not that they didn’t have their charms, but Clint has a hard time thinking about Barney now without wanting to punch him in the face. Rotten bastard of a brother.

Clint does miss him, though.

The college kids pause in front of him. “Can we stop?” one of the girls whines. “My feet hurt from these stupid heels, god.” She leans against a trash can and pulls them off. “I _knew_ I should’ve worn flats.”

They really do look uncomfortable. Clint winces as she rubs at a nasty looking blister.

“I don’t want to stop here,” one of the other girls says. She’s leaning heavily on a guy—boyfriend, probably, judging from the possessive arm he’s got around her—and looking at the building across the street. “That place gives me the creeps.”

“Just for a sec, Cindy,” the first girl snaps. She’s digging in her purse for something.

“What’s so scary about it?” another boy asks. “It’s just a building.”

“I don’t know,” Cindy says. “It’s just creepy looking.” She takes the bottle of tequila. “Looks like it should be in a horror movie.”

She’s got a point. It’s got a weird sort of aura to it. Clint wouldn’t call it creepy, necessarily, but it’s definitely not a friendly looking place. It’s the kind of building that if Clint was still in the Circus of Crime, it would definitely be on his _do-not-rob_ list. He has a feeling that he’d regret ever sneaking inside.

“There’s a really weird guy who works there,” the boyfriend says. “He comes by the deli sometimes. He was wearing a cape once.”

“A _cape_?”

“Yeah. It was so fucking weird. I asked him if he was in costume for something, and he told me he was the guardian of our reality. I think he was high.”

Clint snickers at the thought of a guy in a cape buying a sandwich from the deli. Shoe Girl slides her heels back on and winces as she takes a few more steps. “Let’s call an Uber or something,” she says. “I’m done walking.”

The others make various sounds of assent and the group moves away. Clint watches them go, then sits down on the front steps of a nearby business. Maybe if he hangs out here long enough, he’ll see the guy in the cape come out. Seems as good a plan as any.

* * *

The guy in the cape does not come out. Clint sits on the steps until the sun comes up again, alternately dozing and watching the building in intervals. But when the door finally opens across the street, the only person to come out is a figure Clint recognizes instantly.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” he groans, watching James blink in the morning sunlight. “This does _not_ help the whole ‘not stalking you’ thing.”

But James doesn’t appear to notice him. He turns left out of the building and starts walking down the street. Clint sits frozen for a moment, lost in indecision, then says, “Aw, fuck it.” Maybe he’ll go to a cafe or something, and Clint can just pretend to run into him naturally. He gets to his feet and stretches, then turns to see where James went.

“Just be casual,” he mutters, scanning the street. “Casual, casual.”

“You know there’s nothing casual about a guy muttering ‘casual’ to himself, right?”

Clint nearly jumps out of his skin and whips around. James is standing a short distance from him, wearing a dark grey security guard uniform that looks damn good on him. Clint stares for a second, vaguely aware that his mouth is hanging open. He closes it with a click and hopes that he can chalk it up to being surprised.

“I have to say,” James adds, “this doesn’t really help your whole ‘not stalking you’ argument.”

“I was just thinking that too,” Clint admits, rubbing a hand through his hair. “But I swear I’m not. I was just sitting here.”

“Uh-huh.” James eyes him with a critical gaze. “On the steps of a closed business? All night?”

“Um.” Clint shuffles his feet awkwardly, then looks up at him. “Wait, you knew I was here?”

“I work night security for that building,” James says, gesturing at it. “It’s my job to monitor suspicious activities around it. Including guys who loiter across the street and stare at it all night.”

Clint blushes. “I didn’t know _you_ were in there,” he says. “Some college kids were talking about a guy in a cape they’ve seen coming out of there. I thought it would be interesting to see.”

James laughs at that. “Dr. Strange? He doesn’t normally wear the cape out unless he’s taking care of something.”

“What does he do?”

“This and that.” James doesn’t elaborate further. “So you sat out here all night, hoping to see a guy in a cape? Don’t you have somewhere to go? I thought you said you lived in Bed-Stuy.”

Clint doesn’t know what to say to that. Finally he says, “I have places to go, yeah. I just...don’t.”

“Why not?”

_Because I’m dead and no one can see me?_ “I don’t really want to get into it.”

Surprisingly, James seems to take this as an acceptable answer. “Okay.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “It’s Clint, right?” Clint nods. “I was going to go get a coffee. Do you want to come with?” He smirks. “You know, since you’ll probably just follow me there anyway.”

“Low blow,” Clint says, but he can’t help laughing. “Sure. Sounds good.”

The cafe is just down the block from the building. James orders his own, then looks over at Clint expectantly. “You want anything?”

“No,” Clint says, which is probably the biggest lie he’s ever told in his life. He hasn’t had coffee in six months. He’d straight up murder someone for it right now.

The barista gives James an odd look for apparently speaking to nobody in particular, then swipes his credit card. “It’ll be ready in a few minutes,” she says, and he steps off to the side. Clint follows him, painfully aware of how many people are in here.

“You’re not fond of crowds,” James says, watching him perceptively.

“Not really,” Clint says, which is also a lie. He likes crowds just fine. Good places to disappear into and all. He just doesn’t want James to see anyone walk through him.

“We can walk,” James says. He picks up his coffee and motions Clint to follow him outside. They snake around the people nearby and start walking down some side streets, away from the press of people.

“So.” Clint kicks at a rock, then winces as his foot goes through it. James doesn’t notice. “You work night security?”

James nods. “Yeah.”

“How’d you get that job?”

“I was involved in some...bad stuff, before this. The guy who owns the place, Dr. Strange—”

“Cape Guy.”

James snickers. “Yes, Cape Guy. Anyway, he helped me out of a tight spot. He was looking for someone to guard the Sanctum at night, or when he’s out, so I stepped up. It’s pretty low-key, which was what I was needed, and I’m discreet, which was what he needed. He pays enough for me to be comfortable, and then I get to study with him too.”

“Study what?”

“Just the mysteries of the universe,” James says lightly, and Clint can’t really tell if he’s kidding or not. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Where do you work?”

“Oh. I, uh...” Clint scrambles for a cover story, trying to think of something believable that also allows him wiggle room for more lying later. “I work for the government,” he finally says, which isn’t necessarily _untrue_. “I’d tell you more, but then I’d have to kill you.”

James shrugs. “Fair enough.”

Huh. If this was the other way around, Clint would be pushing for more information. But he’s a nosey fucker, honestly. Partially from being a spy, partially because he just likes to know things. And he’s _definitely_ interested in getting to know James more.

“So,” he says, hooking his thumbs in his pockets. “What kind of bad stuff were you into?”

James shakes his head. “It’s not something I like to talk about.”

“Come on,” Clint says. “I bet it’s not any worse than the shit I used to pull.”

This gets him an eyebrow raise. “Oh yeah? What kind of shit would that be?”

“I was raised in a circus,” Clint says. “We did everything you can think of.” He grins. “We literally called ourselves the Circus of Crime. Not publicly, mind you. But we did some wild stuff.”

James is staring at him. “You were raised in a _circus?_ ” He sounds both incredulous and highly amused. “Seriously?”

“I ran away from a foster home with my brother when I was...eight? Nine? I was young, anyway. We found the circus and got jobs as roustabouts. Guys who set things up,” he adds at James’s confused look. “Basically slaves with a fancy title. We did whatever they needed us to.”

“You’re making this up,” James says, shaking his head. “No one runs away from home to join a circus. That’s like...fairy tale shit.”

“No, really. We did.” Clint grins at him. “Trust me, man. I know how it sounds.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” James sips his coffee. “But go on. How long were you there for?”

“Uh...” Clint tries to count on his fingers. “I don’t know. A long time. Years. I liked it there. I mean, the crime part wasn’t the greatest, but I’ve got some good memories.”

“So why’d you leave?”

Clint swallows. He can still feel the sting of the Swordsman’s betrayal, and the look on his face as he’d advanced on Clint, fists clenched and eyes fierce. “Reasons.”

“Reasons,” James echoes.

“I learned some things about some people,” Clint says quietly. “And decided I didn’t want to be around them anymore. So I left.” _After they beat the absolute shit out of me._ “I hung out on my own for a while, and then I ended up joining the Av—the government.” He winces. _Smooth, Hawkeye. Real smooth._

But James doesn’t seem to notice the slip, or if he does, he ignores it. “Sorry that happened to you.”

Clint shrugs. “Life happens. People suck.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” James mutters. He finishes the last of his coffee.

“So what about you?” Clint asks. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you dodging my question.”

“What question?” There’s an innocent tone to his voice, but Clint can see the smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Bad stuff. I used to rob people and steal things. What did you get into?”

“Nothing as interesting as a crime circus,” James says. Clint laughs. “I was in the Army for a while. A special unit, serving with my best friend. We were taking out pockets of bad guys all over Europe. Then I got injured while we were doing an op. There was a group that helped me, but in return they wanted me to do some... _unethical_ things for them. I got trapped with them for a while. Dr. Strange helped me get away. He saved my life, honestly.”

Oh, there is so much _more_ to that story. Clint can practically taste the secrets underneath it. But there’s something about James’s expression, and the subtle change in his posture, that makes Clint think pushing for more would be a bad idea right now. So he just nods and says, “What were you in the Army?”

“For rank? Sergeant. I was the team sniper.”

Clint perks up at that, immediately interested. “A sniper?”

“Yeah.”

“You any good?”

“I was _great_.” James sounds a little offended. “I had a confirmed count in the triple digits before I...got hurt.”

Clint lets out a low whistle. “Damn. That _is_ good. Do you still go shooting at all?”

“Sometimes,” James says. “There’s a long range upstate that I like to use. I have a couple rifles still, and if I get a long weekend I usually go up there.” He looks at Clint. “You like guns?”

“I’m more of an archery guy,” Clint says. “But yeah, I like guns. I can shoot either.”

“Archery? Like bow and arrows?”

“Yeah.” Clint smiles at his expression. “Trust me, I know how that sounds too.”

“Did you learn that in the circus?”

“Sure did. Guy named Trick Shot. He taught me everything I know.” Clint forces away the usual feelings at the thought of his old mentor. “Him and the Swordsman. They both trained me.”

James looks like he’s trying really hard not to laugh. “Tell me those were their circus names, and not their actual names.”

“Of course those were the circus names,” Clint says. “We all had one.”

“Yeah? What was yours?”

Clint strikes a pose, like he’s pulling back on an arrow. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present: The Amazing Hawkeye, World’s Greatest Marksman!”

James actually does laugh at that, hard enough that he has to put his hand on a nearby wall to keep upright. On one hand, Clint is slightly offended by this. On the other hand, he really likes the way James’s entire face lights up while he’s laughing, and he kind of wants to watch it forever.

“It’s not _that_ bad,” he finally says. “I mean, I know it’s a little over the top.”

“It’s a little ridiculous,” James agrees, pushing himself back upright. “I liked the presentation, though. Points for that.” He chuckles, then says, “Isn’t one of the Avengers named Hawkeye?”

“Yeah,” Clint says offhandedly. “Bastard stole my act.”

James snickers. “Rude of him.” He tosses his coffee cup in a nearby trashcan and turns to Clint. “So where’re you headed now?”

“Generally speaking? Nowhere. In terms of my life’s big picture?” He pretends to think for a moment, then says, “Also nowhere.”

James smiles. “Well I need to get home. I have to let my dog out, and get some sleep. But there’s a live music thing I was going to go to tonight before work. Would that be something you’re interested in?”

“Are you asking me on a date?” Clint asks, a little surprised.

“Well, I figure if I don’t, you’ll probably just be there anyway. Might as well cut out the middle part, you know?”

“I’m _not_ stalking you,” Clint sighs, even as he smiles. “But sure. I’d like that. Music’s cool. I like music.”

“Alright.” James digs out his phone. “Can I have your number?”

“I don’t have one,” Clint says. “Mine broke a while back and I’ve just never gotten another one.”

“You don’t have a phone?” James sounds a little shocked at this, and he’s looking at Clint like he’s got a second head or something. “I thought everybody in this century carried a phone.”

Clint shrugs. “People know where to find me,” he says. “If they need me. Besides, it’s a thing now to go without one, you know. Cutting off from technology and reconnecting with nature and all that.”

James doesn’t look like he’s buying that for a hot second, but he doesn’t argue. “Okay,” he says, slipping his phone back in his pocket. “Fine. It’s in Washington Square Park. Meet me under the arch at seven?”

“Sure,” Clint says. “See you there.”

* * *

He’s weirdly...floaty, almost, after that, practically skipping around the city. It takes him a couple hours to identify the feeling as being happy. Which in itself is a little depressing, realizing that it’s been so long since he was in a good mood. But even that can’t put a damper on it. He’s got a date. He had to die to get it, but he’s got a date. Natasha would be so proud of him.

It occurs to him, at some point, that he could use James to tell his friends he’s still alive. It would be easy to prove to James that he’s a ghost—he can stick his hand through something, or walk through someone—and then convince James to come with him to Avengers tower. The team would interrogate him, but all they have to do is ask some things only Clint would know. It probably wouldn’t take much. And then—

And then what?

Clint can’t figure out anything past that. Even if he tells them that he’s alive—or whatever the hell he is—they can’t _do_ anything about it. From his occasional check ups on the team, he knows they’re no closer to locating Hydra, and no closer to building the gun that killed him, and that they’ve exhausted all their leads. Learning he’s still here might be nice at first, but it doesn’t solve the fundamental problem. And they can’t hear or see him, which means he needs James to be his constant translator, which doesn’t really seem like a reasonable thing to ask. In all likelihood, it’ll just end up being more painful for everyone.

“No,” he says to a nearby chocolate lab, who’s staring at him with a curious expression. “What’s the point?”

It’s still not fair. Nothing about this has been fair. But if Clint’s learned anything in the past months, it’s that life’s not fucking fair, and he’s got to take whatever he can get out of it. So for the time being, he’s going to forget about Hydra and his friends. He’s going to go on this date, and he’s going to have fun, and maybe see if James is possibly interested in kissing him.

“Not likely,” he says to the lab, leaning over and letting his hand fizz through the soft fur. “It’s probably too soon for that.”

Seven o’clock comes both too soon and not fast enough. Clint’s stuck around the general area, so it doesn’t take him long to circle back to the park. There’s people setting up a little stage and sound system, and others opening tables and booths. Clint looks around but he doesn’t see James, so he just leans against the arch and waits.

James shows up about five minutes after that. “Hey,” he says, and Clint turns his head. “Glad you could make it.”

“You too,” Clint says, pausing for a moment to take him in. He’s not wearing the security guard uniform anymore. Now he’s in a pair of black skinny jeans, and a white t-shirt underneath an open plaid button-down, topped off with a pair of somewhat unnecessary sunglasses. It’s a very hipster-esque esthetic that Clint doesn’t really understand, but is definitely appreciative of.

He realizes that he’s staring, then awkwardly clears his throat and looks away. “You, uh...you look good.” _Understatement of the year_.

“Thanks,” James says, looking a little amused. He pulls off the glasses and tucks them into his pocket.

Clint looks down at himself. He’s still in the mission uniform that he died in, although at least it’s his backup one and not the one with the purple symbol on the front. He’d been out testing some Quinjet designs for Tony when the team was called, and hadn’t had time to change before meeting them. In the moment, he’d been less than thrilled about it. Now, he’s just glad that his outfit doesn’t scream _hey it’s me, the dead Hawkeye._

James nods to the stage. “So I don’t actually know who’s playing,” he says. “I only heard about it yesterday from Strange. It’s a donation-based charity concert. I just like live music, and it’s free to come here.”

“Works for me,” Clint says.

“Want something to eat?”

_God, yes._ “No, I ate earlier. Didn’t realize there was gonna be all this.”

“Yeah, apparently it’s a whole thing. Strange said they do it every Friday during the summer.”

“I didn’t know,” Clint says. “I didn’t get out much before—”

He cuts off, because he was about to say _before I died_. But once again, James just takes it in stride. “I only just found out about it myself. Strange recommended it, actually. He keeps telling me I need to get out more.” He gestures to the east. “I don’t think two blocks from work really counts, but I’m making the effort.”

“It counts,” Clint assures him. “And you’re out with someone, so it counts double.”

James smiles at him, and Clint’s knees get a little weak at the sight. “Good to have company,” he agrees as the band starts playing. “Want to get a little closer?”

“Sure,” Clint says, and they work their way towards the stage. They stay on the edges of the crowd, but eventually end up with a pretty decent view of the band.

“What’s your opinion on dancing?” James asks, raising his voice to be heard over the music.

“I suck at it,” Clint says. “But I like doing it.”

James nods. “I’m not any good either. It’s way different nowadays from what I grew up with, and I—” He shakes his head, doesn’t finish the sentence. “Anyway. Want to dance?”

Clint looks at the crowd. He feels like he should say no, and stay out here on the edges where no one can walk through him. But honestly, he wants to. He wants to feel the press of someone against him, and lose himself in the music, and forget for a few minutes that he’s a ghost. The universe owes him at least that.

“I’d love to,” he says, and revels in the way James’s eyes light up.

“I know you said you don’t like crowds,” James says. “We don’t have to get in the middle.”

“Nah,” Clint says, grabbing his hand. His brain just about short-circuits at the sensation—still that weird fuzzy feeling, but now there’s a sense of solidity, mixed with the thrill of actually _touching_ somebody. “I won’t mind if I’m with you.”

James grins at him. “Come on, then,” he says, and pulls Clint into the crowd.

They _are_ both terrible at dancing. But this kind doesn’t require much finesse, in any case. It’s less about footwork and more about being together, about moving to the beat, and Clint can manage that much without tripping over himself.

They dance for a long time, or maybe no time at all. He can’t be bothered to keep track of it, immersed as he is in the music and the way James’s hands are on him. He can feel the heat of them on his skin, the first real thing he’s felt in a long time, and it’s perfect. It’s everything he wanted.

At some point, the crowd starts to thin, and James tugs him out and to the side. “I’m having a great time,” he says, cheeks flushed red and happiness written all over him, “but it’s getting late, and I have to be at work in about twenty minutes.”

“It’s okay,” Clint assures him. “I knew that. No worries.”

James pushes his hair out of his eyes and smiles. “Okay. Good.”

There’s a slightly awkward silence after that, where they both just kind of look at each other, unsure what to say. After a moment, Clint brushes his own hair back and says, “So. This was fun.”

“It’s every Friday,” James says. “If you want.”

“Definitely. If you do.”

“Of course.”

Another awkward moment, and then James says, “Okay. I should go.”

Clint catches his arm as he turns, and then immediately blushes. “Sorry. I keep doing that.” He was never this grabby before, but he’s also never gone six months without touching another human being, either.

James smiles a little. “It’s fine.” He gently pulls his arm free. “Did you want something, or...?”

“It’s just...” Clint waves a hand. “If you wanted to—you know—Friday’s a week away—we could—” Christ, he sounds like a lovestruck teenager. Natasha would laugh her ass off at him.

He takes a deep breath and gets his shit together. “If you wanted to do something before Friday,” he says, sort of feeling like he wants to die again, “I would like that.”

James doesn’t laugh at him, although he definitely looks amused. “I’d love to,” he says. “I have Mondays off. I usually take Lucky to Central Park and we do the long loop. You’re welcome to join us. I’ll call—” He stops. “Can you meet me by the Sherman Monument at nine?”

“Sure,” Clint says. “I can do that.”

“Okay,” James says. “I’ll see you there.”

“Sounds good.”

James offers him a smile, then turns and hurries off. Clint watches him go, pretty sure he also _looks_ like a lovestruck teenager. But honestly, he doesn’t care. This has been the best night he’s had in a long time, and he’s allowed to be a little moony if he wants. It’s been _six_ months.

As soon as James disappears from view, he turns and scans the crowd. He’s not really sure what to do now, honestly. Walk around, maybe? Or he could—

There’s a prickle on the back of his neck suddenly, like someone’s watching him from behind. Clint whips around and scans the crowd behind him. He’s not sure what he’s looking for, exactly, so he just lets his gaze flow over everyone, trying to take in everything.

Then he sees him. A man, walking along the edge of the crowd. He’s moving quickly, like he’s got somewhere to be, eyes up and constantly roving back and forth. It’s not inherently suspicious, but Clint—

Clint _knows_ him.

He runs after the guy, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Sure enough, it’s the asshole who shot him. Clint would recognize that pale blond hair and smarmy look anywhere.

He winds up and punches the guy on pure instinct, then falls over as his fist goes right through the guy’s head. Brimming with fury, he gets back to his feet and instead falls into step beside the guy, practically jogging to keep up with his quick pace. “You fucking bastard,” he says. “All of this is _your_ fault.”

The guy doesn’t answer, of course. He just keeps walking, then boards a bus that takes them into Brooklyn. The guy gets off a couple stops after the bridge ends, and Clint follows him out onto the street. The sinking feeling in his stomach gets stronger as they walk east a little bit. He knows this area. This is the Navy yard. They’re not far from where he was yesterday.

The guy stops, looks around, and pulls out a phone. “ _Ich bin da_ ,” he says, and hangs up. Then he starts walking again, head still swiveling like he’s expecting to see someone. Or like he’s afraid to see someone.

Clint follows him all the way to an industrial, factory-esque kind of building. The guy walks right up to the door, then presses his hand against a small metal plate at chest height. Hand scanner, apparently, because it flashes green at his touch. Then the door slides open, Star Trek style, and the guy steps in.

Clint lunges after him, but he’s too slow. The door hisses shut as soon as the guy’s foot crosses the threshold. “Come on!” Clint yells, slamming a fist against the door, but it doesn’t give under his touch, and he can’t pass through it. Fuming, he kicks it again anyway, then slumps to the ground beside it.

“Okay,” he says out loud. “There’s _something_ going on here. I’m not crazy.”

He thinks about the guy, and the couple he saw yesterday. They might have been meeting up for a lovers thing, but they were definitely here. Which makes three German-speaking people around here, one of whom he knows for _sure_ is Hydra.

So extrapolating from that, there’s a pretty decent chance that the base they’ve all been looking for is probably here, in this building. Or at least, there’s something. The couple meeting up here could have been an innocent thing, but probably not, and the blond guy is definitely up to something. In Clint’s experience, hand scanners usually are a neon sign for ‘something interesting is located behind this door.’

He rubs his forehead and absently wonders if ghosts can get migraines. He feels like he’s on the edge of something big. Something important. Hydra is sneaking around more than usual, and he doesn’t like the look of any of it.

“Could tell the others,” he says, then shakes his head. “No. Need more information.” He doesn’t want to tell his friends he’s...whatever he is, and then have them raid a possible Hydra base with no intel. There’s too many unknowns. Best case scenario, this is just the entrance to the blond guy’s super cool hidden apartment, and then Clint will have told his friends he’s alive for no reason at all. Worst case, this really is the Hydra base they’ve been looking for, and if that’s true, then he’s sure as hell not sending them in without a clear idea of what they’re facing.

So no. He’ll wait out here, and see what unfolds. Someone’s got to come out of that door sometime, and then he’ll sneak through them and see what’s going on.

“This sucks,” he says to the night sky, settling into what’ll probably be a long wait. “I fucking hate stakeouts.” Especially stakeouts by himself, where he doesn’t even have Tetris to help pass the time. 

He sits there all night, until the sun creeps over the horizon and bathes him in light.

No one else goes in.

The man does not come out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot), and by [flowerparrish](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/flowerparrish). Thank you!


	5. chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is a long walk, but it’s a nice one. The conversation flows easily between them, even though they both have to code word out a couple times. Clint figures out pretty quickly not to ask James about his military service, his one surviving friend, or the time spent with that group of people. James learns not to ask Clint about his job, or why he doesn’t like to spend time at home. 
> 
> But there’s a fair amount to talk about outside of that, and Clint decides that James is not only drop-dead gorgeous, but he’s also fascinating, and smart, and funny as hell. Clint would’ve preferred to meet him when he was alive, but if he had to die to get this—well, James almost makes everything worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS THE CHAPTER WITH THE ART!
> 
> [Art by bigwolfpup](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/post/629817177653035008/bigwolfpup-art-done-for-winterhawkbigbang-this), please go give it a reblog, it's just incredible.
> 
> AND BREAKING NEWS, there is also _gorgeous_ art from CheshireAliceDoodles, who did an [INCREDIBLE job, and also deserves all the reblogs.](https://cheshirealicedoodles.tumblr.com/post/630964365137444864/feedmecookiesnow-bigwolfpup-art-done-for)
> 
> Thank you, both of you, for your time and your talent. I can't believe I got so lucky as to work with such incredible, amazing people.

Clint spends the whole damn weekend outside that door, but it never opens again. By the time Sunday rolls into Monday, he decides to give it up. Either the guy is in there for life, or there’s another entrance and Clint is just wasting his time out here.

Annoyed, he gets to his feet and walks around the building for the millionth time, and for the millionth time finds nothing. It’s all boarded up tight, and there’s nothing he can do to get in. If he had a body, it would be child’s play. He would’ve been in and out, twenty minutes max. Without a body, all he can do is scowl ineffectively at the grates and bars and plywood covering everything.

“I hate you,” he says to the building, then looks down at his watch, which has managed to keep time perfectly despite him being dead. If he ever gets back to life, he’s gonna write a letter to the company or something. _Great watch. Very comfortable. Works well in the afterlife. Did not fall off my ghost hand._ Should thank Stark for his hearing aids, too, because those haven’t died either.

He catches a bus back towards Central Park, feeling some of the irritation melt away at the thought of seeing James again. It’ll be nice to talk with someone besides himself for a bit.

James is already there, sitting on a bench with Lucky at his feet. He smiles as Clint walks up. “Hey. How was your weekend?”

“Boring,” Clint says truthfully, reaching down to scratch at Lucky’s ears. Or tries to scratch, anyway. “How was yours?”

“Less boring. Someone tried to break into the Sanctum on Saturday night.” James gets to his feet and tugs Lucky along with him. “They didn’t get anything. I scared them off before they got too close. But we haven’t had a break-in for a while, so that was an adventure.”

“Cool. Or not cool, I guess? I mean, it’s good they didn’t get anything.” They start walking down the path.

“There’s not a lot to steal on the first floor anyway,” James says. “That’s all for show. The important stuff is upstairs, and it’s pretty well protected.”

Clint nods. “What kind of stuff is in there, anyway?”

James laughs. “Honestly? Books, for the most part. And the rest is just artifacts. It’s kind of like a museum, almost. They’re in glass enclosures with some sophisticated alarms.” He eyes Clint with a raised eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m just curious,” Clint says innocently.

“Uh-huh.” There’s faint amusement on his face. “Personally curious, or circus of crime curious?”

Clint snorts and nudges his shoulder. “Shove off. I left that shit behind years ago.”

“Right, right.” James grins and tugs Lucky away from some pigeons. “Just making sure.”

“I’m going to regret telling you about that, aren’t I?”

“Possibly.”

They turn around a corner, and Clint looks longingly at a coffee shop across the street. God, what he wouldn’t give...

“So you have a brother?”

He turns to James. “Huh?”

“On Friday, you said you ran away from a foster home with your brother. Is he still around, or...”

“Oh.” He’s surprised James remembers that. “Uh, yeah. He’s still around. I don’t know where. We don’t talk much anymore. He’s kind of an asshole.”

James snorts. “That so?”

“Yeah.” Clint brushes his hair back. “What about you? Siblings? Parents?”

“Not anymore,” James says, tightening up on Lucky’s leash as another dog passes by. “They’re all long dead. My sister, my parents. Everyone I knew.”

Clint looks at him. “What happened?”

“Life, I think,” he sighs. “I don’t know. We lost touch when I was...with that group. By the time I got out, everyone I knew was dead and gone.” He pauses, then says, “Well. Almost everyone.”

“Almost?”

“Oh, one of my old friends is still alive. But it’s been a long time, and I didn’t want to get involved in his new life.” James shakes his head. “Enough about me. I’m depressing. Tell me about you. What’s your favorite color?”

“I—” Clint blinks. “What?”

“Your favorite color. What is it?”

“Purple. And you’re not depressing, you’re interesting.” Clint bumps him with an elbow. “If you don’t want to talk about something, that’s fine. I’ve got shit I don’t want to talk about either.” He snaps his fingers. “New rule. If we run into something we don’t want to discuss, we say a code word, and then we can avoid that conversation like the proper adults we are.”

James snorts. “Okay. Fair. What’s the code word?”

“I don’t know. Something cool.” He thinks for a moment. “Or weird.” He thinks again, searching around the park for inspiration. His eyes land on a kid eating an ice cream cone. “Uhh...waffles?”

There’s a moment of silence, and then James starts laughing. Clint likes it so much more than he probably should. “Waffles?” he finally repeats. “Seriously?”

“Give me a break, code words are hard.”

“Well, we have to do something better than _waffles_.”

“You come up with something then, Einstein.”

He rolls his eyes. “Give me a minute, and I will.” They walk in silence, and then James lets out an explosive sigh. “I can’t. I’m stuck on waffles now.”

Clint snickers. “Hah. Told you so.”

“It’ll be a work in progress.” James scowls over at Lucky, who’s exploring a garden “Hey, you fluffy little bastard. Stop eating the flowers.”

“Be nice to him, he’s a good boy.” Clint kneels down to scratch at Lucky’s head, or at least try to. “You are a good boy, aren’t you? Yes, you are. The best boy.”

“Don’t egg him on,” James says mildly. “He’s already a spoiled brat, he doesn’t need encouragement.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Clint says to Lucky. “I’m on your side.”

James laughs and tugs the leash. “Come on. We got a long walk to get through.”

It is a long walk, but it’s a nice one. The conversation flows easily between them, even though they both have to code word out a couple times. Clint figures out pretty quickly not to ask James about his military service, his one surviving friend, or the time spent with that group of people. James learns not to ask Clint about his job, or why he doesn’t like to spend time at home. 

But there’s a fair amount to talk about outside of that, and Clint decides that James is not only drop-dead gorgeous, but he’s also fascinating, and smart, and funny as hell. Clint would’ve preferred to meet him when he was _alive_ , but if he had to die to get this—well, James almost makes everything worth it.

“You’re kidding,” he says as they round the corner of the final turn in the sidewalk. In the distance, the Sherman statue comes into view. Clint hates the sight, because he doesn’t want this date to end. Not ever. “Seriously? On _fire?_ ”

“Yep,” James says, completely straight-faced. “The whole tree. Strange put it out way before it got out of hand, but that’s the reason we’re not allowed to have plants or fireworks in the Sanctum anymore. We got a whole lecture about it, too. It was hilarious. I’ve never seen Wong so mad about anything before or since then.” He considers for a moment, then says, “Well. There was the sandwich incident, but—”

A broad man steps into their path, cutting him off. Clint groans as he recognizes the guy. He’s one of the tracksuit dudes. “You again?”

James sighs. “Apparently.” He stops a couple paces away. “Hello, Viktor. What’s the problem today?”

There’s no baseball bat this time, but even a blind person could spot the bulge of a pistol in the front of the guy’s pants. Clint rolls his eyes and hopes he shoots his own dick off.

“You are problem, bro,” Viktor says. “I have message. From Ivan.”

“Great. Let’s hear it.”

“Your rent’s going up this month, bro. Quadruple. You gotta get him the money by end of the week. He’s being real generous here, bro.”

James rubs a hand over his forehead. “You fucking kidding me?”

“He owns building, bro. He can do whatever he wants.” Ivan bares his teeth in something that could charitably be described as a smile. “You no pay, he make you regret it, bro. Big time.”

“He can’t do that,” Clint protests. “That can’t be legal!”

“He owns the building,” James says, suddenly looking annoyed and tired. “Can do whatever he wants with it. It’s in the lease that I stupidly signed.” He pulls Lucky back as Viktor kicks at him. “Hey! Do that again, _bro_ , and I’m gonna break your damn leg.”

Viktor looks worried for a moment, then wipes it off his face. “One week, bro. You no pay, there’s gonna be consequences. Big consequences.”

James shakes his head. “Get out of here, Viktor. Tell Ivan he’ll get his money.”

Viktor leaves them with one last scouring look. As soon as he’s gone, Clint turns to James. “You signed a lease that said he could raise the rent?”

“I was desperate. I really needed a place to live and it was the cheapest option at the time. Ivan isn’t actually a _terrible_ landlord. It’s only been the last couple months that he’s been like this.” He shakes his head again. “They’re up to something, I just don’t know what. I need to find out.”

“Are you gonna pay him?”

“If I have to.”

“You have the money for a quadruple rent raise?”

“Yes.” James motions to Lucky and they start walking again.

Clint hurries after him. “Are you like, a secret millionaire or something?”

“Waffles,” James says with a slight smile. “I’m kind of surprised he didn’t tell you to clear out. They really don’t like bystanders. Even just for conversations.”

Clint shrugs. “I’m an invisible kind of guy. Most people don’t notice me.”

“I notice you,” James says quietly, almost under his breath. Clint grins, but doesn’t comment on it. 

They reach the statue. James drops himself onto a bench and hikes his foot up to retie his shoe. “So,” he says. “Normally I go get some pizza after our walk. You interested?”

“Yeah,” Clint says immediately, his mouth watering at the thought. Then he remembers he can’t eat anything. _Fucking ghost body_. “But I got—” He waves vaguely over his shoulder. “I said I would—I told you about Nat, right?”

“Natasha? Yeah, you mentioned her a few times.”

“I told her I’d help her with a...thing.” Clint mentally kicks himself. _For someone who used to be a spy, you sure as hell suck at lying._ “So I need to go meet up with her.” He looks at his watch. “Soon, I think. She wasn’t real specific on time.”

James looks disappointed, but he nods. “Okay. Fair enough.” He pokes Clint’s arm. “We need to get you a phone, though.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to keep talking to you beyond setting up dates.” James shrugs. “I know we just met and all, but I like spending time with you. It’s fun. I’d like to keep doing it.”

“Same,” Clint says. “I’ll...I’ll work on the phone thing, okay?”

“Okay.” James looks around. “You need a taxi or something?”

“Oh, no. I’ll just walk. She’s over by Avengers Tower.”

“Want some company, then? I was heading that direction anyway.”

“I...” Clint tries to think of a plausible reason to say no. But he can’t, and he doesn’t really want to anyway.

“It’s fine if you don’t want me to,” James says, looking slightly crestfallen. “I don’t want to overstay my welcome or anything.”

“No, no.” Clint scrambles for the words. “That’s not what I was going for at all.” He rubs a hand through his hair. _Aw, fuck it._ “You can come with me. I’d like that.”

James smiles. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Clint smiles back. “I really would.”

They start heading south. After a moment, James says, “I’m sorry if I keep making this weird. That’s not my intent.”

Clint snorts. “At least _you_ can keep your hands to yourself.”

“That’s true,” James laughs. “But I figure I should probably warn you now, before we get too far into this. I’m not really good at this stuff.”

“What stuff?”

He gestures between them. “Dating. Flirting. Any of it.”

“I don’t know, I think you’re doing good so far.” Clint grins at him. “I like it, anyway.”

“Good to know.” James grins back, and Clint’s heart does a little flip-flop in his chest. “I just wanted to get that out there. It’s been a while since I did any of this. So if I’m messing something up, just tell me. It’s easier that way.”

“I’m flattered that you think I’m the expert here,” Clint says. “But I’m pretty much the opposite. I haven’t gone on a date in a long time either.”

A _really_ long time, actually, and it hadn’t been that great of a date either. Clint doesn’t even remember the guy’s name. Jason? Jensen? Something like that. They’d done dinner and a movie, and it had been uncomfortable the whole way through. Nice enough guy, just nothing in common, which led to stilted conversation and awkward silences. Eventually, they’d both given up and gone home.

Natasha had actually arranged another blind date for him a week later, but then there’d been a mission, and he’d never got around to calling the guy back. And then not too long after that, he died, and dating went out the window for a bit. So all things considered, it’s been awhile for him too.

“Well,” James says, and Clint pulls his attention back. “For the record, I also think you’re doing pretty good so far.”

“You say the nicest things.” Clint reaches out and takes his hand. James looks startled for a second, and Clint hesitates, pulling back a little. “Sorry, is that—”

“Not at all,” James says, tightening his grip. “It’s fine. It’s more than fine.” He smiles at Clint. “Come on. Let’s get you to your friend.”

Clint hasn’t come up with a better lie by the time they make it to Avengers Tower, so as they start getting close, he reluctantly untangles his hand from James’s and gestures to the building. “This is me.”

James pulls Lucky away from another dog and looks up at the tower. “Your friend is here?”

“She...works here, yeah.”

“Oh.” James looks uncomfortable, suddenly. “Okay. Well, I’m going to take off, then. Let you get on with things.”

Clint looks at his face, then up at the tower. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” James assures him, not looking fine at all. “I just need to get a move on, I gotta get groceries, and pizza, and a couple other things. No worries.” He smiles weakly. “I’ll see you Friday?”

“Unless I stalk you somewhere before then,” Clint says, trying for a joke. It seems to work at least a little bit, as the sick looking pallor slightly vanishes from James’s face. “I’m kidding. What are you doing Wednesday?”

“Nothing in the morning,” James says. “I have to be at work by five, though. Strange is going out to do something and asked me to come in early.”

Clint nods. “There’s some kind of expo thing happening over by the U.N. Headquarters, if you’re interested. I can meet you under Canada’s flag around noon?” He shrugs. “Can’t imagine it’ll be that fun, but it’s something to do, you know? And then you can bring Lucky.”

James studies him for a moment, then says, “You’re just using me to get to my dog, aren’t you?”

Clint laughs. “You got me. He’s all I really want.”

“You’re a menace,” James informs Lucky. “Stealing all the good looking guys. Just because you’re cute and fluffy doesn’t mean you can get away with it, you know.”

Lucky barks at him. James sighs. “Fine. We’ll discuss it at home.” To Clint, he says, “I gotta go. Wednesday at noon under Canada?”

“See you there,” Clint says, turning towards the building.

A hand closes around his arm. “Wait a second.”

Clint looks at it, then up at James. “Isn’t this my thing?”

James laughs a little. “I just...” He sucks his lower lip into his mouth for a moment, and Clint finds himself unreasonably attracted to it. “Uh...”

“Just say it.”

“I want to kiss you,” James blurts out.

Clint blinks in surprise. “You want to...kiss me?”

“If that’s okay. I know it’s a little soon but—”

“It’s fine,” Clint interrupts. Probably a little too eager-sounding to be cool, but he doesn’t care. “You can totally kiss me.” He looks around, then tugs James out of the sidewalk a bit. “Maybe not in the middle of the road, though.”

“Right,” James agrees, pulling Lucky along with them.

They step sideways until they’re out of the flow of people, tucked away into a little doorway of a closed business. James wraps Lucky’s leash around his hand and brushes his hair out of his face. “I, uh...”

“You okay?”

“Haven’t kissed anyone in a while either,” James admits.

“Me neither,” Clint says, realizing again that James is a little shorter than him. He likes it. “We can call this a practice one.”

“Works for me,” James says, and leans forward.

They’re both a little unsure, and it’s kind of awkward at first. But then James seems to find his confidence, and the kiss deepens. Turns into something more heated, something that sends sparks up Clint’s spine and lights up everything around him. It’s like a rainstorm in his head, drumbeats in his mind that build to a crescendo, and Clint thinks this might be the best thing he’s ever felt in his life. There’s a solidity to James, a warmth, and underneath it all is the indescribable joy of actually _touching_ someone—

They break apart. James has this dazed look on his face, and Clint finds himself completely enthralled by it. He feels the same way—a little drunk on what just happened, and deliriously, _insanely_ happy. He wants to do that again.

So he does, one more time, and it’s just as good as the first one. His arms wind around James, tugging him in closer, one drifting down to settle at the small of his back. _Change of plans,_ he thinks hazily. _Why don’t we just do this forever?_

He’s settling into the idea when _forever_ is interrupted by a bark, and a nose works its way in between them. Clint steps back with a laugh as Lucky barks again and jumps up on James’s legs.

“Lucky,” James sighs, looking down at him. He kneels down and pets at him. “Why, buddy? I was having a moment there.”

“It’s okay,” Clint says, sparing a thought for how weird that whole scene must have looked for anyone walking by. “That was—that was nice.”

_Nice_ is totally an inadequate description, but his brain isn’t quite firing on all cylinders yet, and it’s the best he can come up with at the moment.

“Yeah,” James says. “Definitely.” He looks down at Lucky. “Before someone felt left out, anyway.”

“Before that,” Clint agrees.

They grin at each other like a couple of morons. Then Clint gestures to the tower. “I should go,” he says. “I don’t want to, but I should.”

James nods. He presses one more kiss to Clint’s mouth—a quick, chaste thing—and pulls on Lucky’s leash. “Come on, you. Pizza.”

Lucky barks excitedly, and Clint laughs. “See you Wednesday?”

“Under Canada at noon,” James agrees, waving as he disappears into the crowd. Clint watches him go, unable and unwilling to wipe the smile from his face.

It disappears anyway when he looks up at the Tower. He doesn’t really have anything to do here, he was just trying to make an excuse for not eating with James. But since he’s here, he might as well go up. It’s been a couple weeks since he’s checked in. _Now to find someone to follow up..._

It takes a few hours, but finally a familiar black car pulls up out front. Clint looks up, expecting to see a SHIELD agent or two get out. But it’s Tony and Pepper, apparently in the middle of an intense discussion.

“Ooh, even better,” Clint says, and scrambles off the sidewalk to follow them. They stop their discussion as they walk into the building, smiling politely at the various people who greet them. Some SHIELD peon runs up with papers for Tony to sign. Pepper takes them instead, promising to get them back within an hour.

Clint darts into the elevator with them. As soon as the doors close, Tony turns back to Pepper. “I really think it’s something, Pep.”

“I don’t know, Tony. It’s all circumstantial evidence. There’s nothing definitive, and after what happened last month, we really need to be careful. We just barely got the PR mess cleaned up.”

_What happened last month?_ Clint wonders, watching the way Tony’s jaw tightens.

“What more evidence do you need?” he finally asks.

“It’s not me, honey. It’s SHIELD. If you want their support, you’re going to need more than seeing one suspicious person walking around. We can’t go off on a hunch.”

“Pepper, going off on hunches is pretty much my M.O.”

She kisses his cheek. “Not this time. It can’t be. Please let SHIELD do their thing.”

“I understand, Pep, but—”

The doors open into the lounge. Natasha is there, leaning against the counter, and Clint’s heart leaps at the sight of her. She still looks tired, but a little less beat-up than she did the last time he saw her. Her hair is loose around her face, a little longer than he remembers, and the ends are blond now. He wonders when she did that. It looks good on her.

She looks over at Tony and Pepper. “What are you guys arguing about?”

“Tony thinks the Hydra base we’ve been looking for is down by the Navy Yard,” Pepper says, dropping her coat over a chair.

Nat looks intrigued. Clint feels the same. “What makes you think that?”

“Just some security footage,” Pepper says. “I really don’t think it’s anything. It’s just a guy going through a door.”

“Enough to put SHIELD on it?” Natasha asks, abandoning whatever she’s drinking. Whiskey, maybe? Something dark. He wonders how long that’s been going on. Not that she doesn’t drink, but it’s not usually during the day.

Tony shrugs. “I thought so. Pepper disagreed.” He pulls out his phone and keys up a video, then displays it larger for all of them. Clint steps around Natasha, trying to get a closer look.

It’s the docks. Specifically, it’s the building Clint was staking out the other day. He watches as a grainy figure walks up to the building, presses a hand against the wall, and steps into a sliding door. It’s too hard to tell if it was the same person that he was watching the other night, but he thinks it might be. _Well, that’s interesting._

“Tony,” Natasha says quietly, and Tony shoves the phone back into his pocket.

“I know,” he says. “I know. But that building is closed up tight. I had a closer look at it. If the building’s abandoned and condemned, why is there a high-tech handprint scanner? Why is someone going in there at all?”

Natasha considers. “We’ve done more for less,” she finally says to Pepper. “Have you guys brought this to SHIELD at all?”

“We have,” Tony says. “That’s where I was just now. Sitwell says he’ll put some people on it.”

She starts pulling her hair back. “Okay. Keep me updated.”

Tony looks at the bag on the floor. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Yeah.” She looks sad for a moment. “Agent Conlin contacted me. She thinks she might have found Barney.”

Clint whips around. “She found _Barney?_ ”

Tony echoes his question, and Nat nods. “On an island in Fiji. I’m taking a Quinjet there.”

“That’s unfair,” Tony says. “How come you get to go to Fiji? I want to go to Fiji.”

“Barney’s cagey. If you go blasting in as Iron Man, he’s going to run off and hide. I’m going because I’m actually capable of stealth.”

Tony looks offended. “I’m capable of stealth,” he says, and both Pepper and Clint snort in disbelief. “What? I am.”

“Sure you are,” Pepper says, patting his arm. “Natasha, we’ll keep you updated. Do you need anything?”

She shakes her head. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’m not staying long. I just thought he should hear it from...” She trails off. “From someone who knew him.”

“He might already know,” Tony points out. “It was in the papers. If he gets any news at all down there, he would’ve heard it.”

“He still deserves to hear it in person. It’s what Clint would’ve wanted.”

“She’s got a point,” Clint says, wishing he could hug her. “If you could also punch him in the face once or twice for me, though, that would be great.”

Tony picks up her discarded glass and finishes whatever’s in it. “Fair enough.”

Natasha walks over to the couch and picks up a bag. “See you later,” she says, and heads towards the elevator. Clint darts after her.

Inside, she shoulders the bag and leans against the wall. Clint watches her carefully, his heart aching. “Thank you,” he says, even though he knows she can’t hear him. “Thank you for talking to him. It means a lot to me.”

She sighs and rubs her eyes. “Goddammit Clint,” she mutters, and suddenly sounds like she’s holding back tears. “You should be coming with me.”

“I know,” Clint says. “God, Nat. I wish I could.”

He _could_ , technically. There’s nothing stopping him from following her all the way to the jet, and down to Fiji. But as much as he would love to do that, it would be pointless. And he wouldn’t be able to keep his promise to Barney, which was some version of ‘next time I see you, I’m going to break your nose.’ Plus, he’d miss his next date with James.

What he will do, however, is follow up on their lead. SHIELD might be doing surveillance, but Clint can actually get inside the building—provided he can make it through the doors. Get inside, take a look around, gather intelligence. See if it’s actually anything interesting. If it’s not, then he’ll let it go. If it is...

Well, he’ll cross that bridge when he gets there.

Clint follows Nat out onto the street and walks with her down the street. At the corner, she waves a taxi over, and slides into the backseat. She gives the driver an address and pulls the door closed.

“Fly safe,” Clint says from the sidewalk, waving awkwardly. “Please beat him up a little. Just for me.”

The taxi pulls away, and Clint turns on his heels, looking for a bus. “Alright,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s go do some spy shit.”

Which is exciting to think about for all of two seconds, until he realizes that he’s probably going to be sitting in front of that damn building for another long stretch of time.

“This is gonna be _great_ ,” he sighs, and starts walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot), and by [flowerparrish](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/flowerparrish). Thank you!


	6. chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s James. It’s definitely James, holding Lucky’s leash and smiling at something off to the side. The picture is blurry, but Clint would recognize that smile anywhere.
> 
> James Barnes.
> 
> James motherfucking Barnes.
> 
> “Holy shit,” he says out loud. “I kissed the Winter Soldier?"

Sure enough, the door is deserted when he gets back to the building. Clint scowls at it and settles down by the handprint scanner, desperately wishing he could at least throw a tennis ball or play on his phone. This wouldn’t be so bad if he could at least do _something_.

He counts bricks on the wall, which is mind-numbingly boring after about sixty. After that, he dusts off his circus skills and practices walking around on his hands for awhile, which is also boring without someone to appreciate it. Or throw things at him, in Natasha’s case.

Clint almost misses somebody walking up, concentrated as he is on balancing on one hand. It’s only when a voice says something in German that he realizes someone’s nearby. He quickly drops down into a roll, bouncing up to his feet just as the person steps through the doors. He jumps in after them, just barely making it.

“That would’ve been embarrassing,” he says, catching himself on the back wall. “Maybe it’s a good thing no one can see me.” He looks around. “Oh, this is an elevator? Okay. I guess I should have expected that on some level.”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he can practically hear Natasha’s groan, and he smiles a little bit. He wonders if she misses his bad puns, or if that’s one thing she’s glad to be rid of.

The other occupant is familiar, and Clint suddenly recognizes her as the woman from the hotel meeting. “Nice to see you again,” he says. “Are we going to your evil lair? Is that where this goes?”

No answer, not that he was expecting one anyway. The evil elevator keeps descending, going way deeper than Clint would have expected. Or maybe it’s just very slow, who knows. Either way, it takes almost a minute for the doors to open.

Clint follows the lady out into a wide space. It’s a bunker, he realizes. A giant, underground bunker. It looks almost like a newsroom, in a way, full of desks and computers and various people running around and doing things. On the far wall is an obnoxiously large Hydra logo, which Clint promptly flips off.

There’s not a ton of people in here, but there’s enough to create a low buzz of conversation. Many of the desks have portable white boards nearby, all of which are full of various diagrams and drawings. There’s a full coffee bar in one corner of the room, next to a giant bulletin board with things tacked all over it. There’s a door next to that, presumably leading to either another office or a hallway or something.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Clint says, looking around at the literal nest of Hydra agents. “This is insane. How did we not know this was here?”

The woman hurries off and Clint follows her, still trying to take in everything. She winds her way through the desks with ease until she reaches the one closest to the coffee bar and the bulletin board. “Klaus,” she says, and the guy sitting there looks up. It’s the fedora guy, the one she’d met up with.

Clint looks between the two of them. “I swear to God, if you guys start kissing right here, I’m going to stab my eyes out. I never, ever want to see that again.”

“Klaus, I have very important news.”

“What is it, _Liebchen_?”

“We found it. The Winter Soldier. The Asset. We know where it is.”

Clint perks up at that, because _that’s_ a name he knows. More as a ghost story than anything, but he knows it. Everyone in their circles does. That’s the name they pull out at spy campfire nights when they want to freak each other out. As far as he knows, Natasha’s the only one who’s ever actually met the guy, although _met_ might not be the exact word, considering that he’d shot her. Clint’s seen the scar.

“You found it?” Klaus repeats, jumping to his feet. “Where?”

“Brooklyn, of all places.” She motions to him. “Come. We are having an emergency meeting.”

“Brooklyn?” Klaus follows her. “I thought we searched there first?”

“We did. It was hidden from us. There is clever magic involved.”

Clint reaches up and fiddles with his hearing aids, because there’s no way she just said _there is clever magic involved_ with a straight face like that. But apparently she did, because Klaus suddenly looks grave and says, “The wizard?”

“ _Ja_.”

“How involved is he?”

“We do not know. That is why we are meeting.”

They stop talking and walk faster, practically running to the other side of the room. There’s another door over here. Clint follows them through, sticking to Klaus like glue. He wonders for a moment how he’s going to get out, but then pushes the thought aside. There’ll be time for that later.

The door leads into a long hallway, eerily blank of decorations or Nazi squid symbols. There’s just one single door at the other end, like this is a horror movie or something. The woman pushes it open with a quick motion.

It’s a conference room. Long table, vaguely uncomfortable looking chairs, pull-down screen hanging on one wall. Most of the chairs are filled up with people already, and they look up as the door opens. “Agents Wagner, Brandt,” the man at the head of the table says. “Come sit. We’ve been waiting.”

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Clint says, staring at the man. “ _Sitwell?_ ”

It’s a good thing he’s a ghost, honestly, because he’s so floored to find one of his co-workers just chilling out in a Hydra base that it takes him a few minutes to recover. “Figures,” he finally says after a third person walks through him. “You always were a slimy little bastard. I don’t know why I’m surprised at all, honestly.”

Sitwell claps his hands twice. “Your attention please,” he says. “As most of you may know, Agent Wagner has called this meeting because we’ve had something problematic come up.” He gestures to the woman. “Agent Wagner, if you would.”

She stands. “Thank you,” she says. “Ladies and gentlemen, I will not mince words. We have finally discovered the whereabouts of the Winter Soldier.”

There’s a general murmur of interest. Sitwell opens the laptop sitting in front of him and someone dims the lights. He projects an image onto the screen across the wall. A map of Brooklyn.

“It is living in Brooklyn,” Wagner continues. “In Bedford-Stuyvesant in particular.” She points at the map. “Somewhere in this radius.”

Clint blinks. “Wait, what?” _I’ve been hanging out in the radius of the Winter Soldier for the past few months?_ He doesn’t know if he should feel honored or terrified by that.

“It is going under its original name,” she says, “and from what we’ve gathered over the last few days, has appeared to regain most of its memories.”

Another murmur. “How did you find it?” someone asks. “We searched Brooklyn. We searched it well.”

“We have reason to believe it was living in the Sanctum during our initial search,” Wagner says. “And that the wizard was assisting it in regaining its memories during that time. To our knowledge, it has only been living on its own for the last two years or so. The wizard has been helping to shield it from our search. We only found it because of a fringe connection we have with a local Russian gang.”

Clint rubs his forehead, feeling like there’s something very obvious that he’s missing here. _Come on, brain. Work. Do something useful._

“So now what?” someone else asks. “Do we try to take it down? Will the programming still work? It hasn’t been wiped for three years, and we don’t know how much memory it’s regained.”

“It’s possible,” Sitwell says. “The triggers were deeply embedded, and reinforced after wipes. There is a chance the wizard was able to remove them. Still, that should be our first line of defense.”

“Do we have surveillance photos?”

“We do,” Sitwell says. “Not many, but we’ve been able to capture some. We’ve enlisted the help of that local gang Agent Wagner mentioned.” He taps the keys, and brings up a picture. “They’re not well trained, but they’ll get the job done.”

He says more after that, but Clint doesn’t hear it. He’s staring at the picture, mouth open, eyes wide. There’s a ringing in his ears, and his heart is hammering against his chest.

It’s James. It’s _definitely_ James, holding Lucky’s leash and smiling at something off to the side. The picture is blurry, but Clint would recognize that smile anywhere.

James Barnes.

James motherfucking Barnes.

“Holy shit,” he says out loud. “I kissed the _Winter Soldier?_ _"_

* * *

He finally manages to get himself back under control enough to tune into the meeting again. The general plan is to keep James under surveillance and possibly work with the Russian gang to bring him in at some point. They keep talking about Project Infinity, which James’s reappearance has interfered with. Clint’s not entirely sure what Project Infinity is about, but it’s apparently something very big and very important.

Clint listens and absorbs as much as he can, trying to fit everything he’s hearing here, plus his little knowledge of the Winter Soldier, into the things he’s learned about James.

_“I was in the Army for a while. A special unit, serving with my best friend. We were taking out pockets of bad guys all over Europe. Then I got injured while we were doing an op. There was a group that helped me, but in return they wanted me to do some...unethical things for them. I got trapped with them for a while. Dr. Strange helped me get away. He saved my life, honestly.”_

Okay. The group that helped him was clearly Hydra, although Clint shudders to think about their definition of _help_. Unethical things...well, based on his general Hydra encounters, he can imagine it probably involved a long trail of bodies and death.

He’s not sure what the rest of it meant, about regaining his memories and the wiping and all that. It sounds like brainwashing or something, especially with the way they keep referring to him as ‘it.’ And he’s a little confused about the general timeline of things. As far as he knows, the Winter Soldier’s been around for fifty plus years. But there’s no way James is anywhere past his mid-thirties. Not with that face.

Maybe it’s a title? Something earned or passed down through assassins, like the Black Widow title, or the Dread Pirate Roberts from _The Princess Bride._ That’s possible. Although they’re also throwing around words like cryofreeze and other things, which is a little too science fiction-y for his taste.

He shakes his head. _I need to get out of here. I need to warn him and tell the Avengers about this place._

The meeting ends, and Clint follows everybody back out to the main room, hoping that someone will take the elevator back up. But no one does. They just scatter back into the open space, picking up projects and sitting down at computers. Sitwell troops over to one of the other doors, which is apparently a private office. Clint doesn’t bother following him in, not wanting to get trapped, and the door closes behind him anyway.

Clint spots the blond guy that shot him, sitting at a desk in the middle of the room, and wanders that direction. His desk is covered with papers. Designs. Designs of a very familiar looking ray gun.

“Oh, wow,” Clint says, looking over it all. It looks exceedingly complicated, something that Tony would probably love. “What kind of shit are you up to, huh?”

He looks through what he can, considering that he can’t touch anything. Doesn’t understand most of it, but he at least commits the drawings to memory before going to wander around the rest of the room.

Clint is still entirely baffled that neither he nor the other Avengers knew this place existed. Not that they were searching intently for underground hideouts or anything, but it seems like a major oversight on their part. Of course, they also apparently missed that Sitwell is a fucking Hydra agent, so—

He stops, a horrible thought occurring to him. “Oh god,” he says to some lady typing at her desk. “What if it’s not just Sitwell?”

He doesn’t recognize anyone here, at least, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Clint racks his mind, trying to think of who else is slimy enough to be a double agent. Jack Rollins, maybe. There’s always been something about him that just seemed off to Clint. Which probably means that Brock Rumlow’s one too. Maybe most of the STRIKE teams are. There’s certainly a weird brotherhood thing going on there that Clint’s never been able to break into. He’d assumed it was because he and Natasha had their own thing going, but now he’s wondering if there’s an underlying squid Nazi reasoning behind it.

“Okay,” he says. “So we assume the STRIKE teams are compromised.”

His gaze drifts back over to Sitwell’s office, and he rubs his chin. “And we should also assume that you answer to somebody, because there’s no way you’re smart enough to do this shit on your own.”

Which brings up an alarming thought, because Sitwell answers directly to Fury. And if _Fury_ is part of this—

“No way,” Clint says, shaking his head. “No fucking way. Fury wouldn’t do that. That’s not who he is.”

He pushes the thought aside for now because if he keeps thinking about this he’s going to lose it. Instead he wanders around the room, looking over people’s shoulders and trying to figure out what the hell Project Infinity is about. After several hours, he’s still not entirely sure. Best he can figure out is that it’s going to happen sometime at the end of the month, and it apparently involves stealing something from a wizard. It’s a testament to how _weird_ Clint’s life is that that’s not even the strangest thing he’s heard today.

There’s no doubt in his mind now that he needs to tell the team what’s going on. Which means that he needs to tell James he’s a ghost, and they need to have a discussion about James being the Winter Soldier, and then they have to get into the Tower. Which _also_ means that Clint’s semi-formed plans about possibly getting James into bed—or at the very least, kissing him again—will need to be tabled for a while. _Goddamn Nazi cockblockers._

Clint can _feel_ the time ticking by, but his hopes for getting out of this place sometime this century are dashed when absolutely no one sets foot into the elevator again. He gets excited for a moment when Klaus says something to Wagner about going to rest, but all that happens is Klaus goes through one of the other doors. Clint trails after him, watching with dismay as the hallway turns into a wider space that looks almost like an army barracks. There’s bunks, and footlockers, and a curtained-off area that looks like it might be showers or something.

“Like a fucking rabbit warren down here,” Clint tells him, looking around, still a little shocked that this whole setup is here at all. “Literally living in the office. You guys take the whole ‘all work and no play’ thing very seriously, don’t you?”

He’s spared from having to watch Klaus snore all night when someone else comes through the door, and he quickly ducks back out of it, going back to the main office. “One of you fuckers has to leave at some point,” he says, looking around. “And luckily for me, I don’t need to sleep.” He parks himself in an abandoned chair and crosses his arms. “So I’m just going to sit right here and wait.”

* * *

Except that plan turns out to be a lot more stressful—and also boring—than Clint imagined it would be.

Mostly because _nobody fucking leaves._

“Seriously,” Clint says, flopping against the wall and glaring at the room in general. “Do none of you have anywhere to go? It’s literally been over a day and _none_ of you have left.”

There’s nothing else for him to do here. He’s looked through everyone’s stuff, as much as he can. He’s eavesdropped on conversations. He’s put together a vague timeline on when Project Infinity is supposed to happen, even if he’s still not entirely what it is. He’s practically bursting with information. But he can’t do anything with it, because he’s _still_ stuck in this goddamn Hydra basement.

He’s keyed up about it, too, and has absolutely no outlet to deal with it at all. Normally when he gets like this, he shoots his bow, or runs the obstacle course at SHIELD, or does _something_ with himself. But this forced waiting—it’s like torture. He can feel the press of time on him, weighing him down. Can feel the urgency coiling under his skin.

The irony isn't lost on him. Six months he’s been avoiding his friends, and now suddenly all he wants to do is run back to them. But they have to know. Even if there’s nothing they can do to help him, they still have to know. He can’t let an entire fucking Hydra base just sit here, unnoticed.

His moment to leave _finally_ comes nearly two days after he got himself down here in the first place. Some low-level peon makes noise about ‘going to the surface’ and Clint practically plasters himself to the guy, following him through another hallway to a different elevator. This one lets them out on a different side of the Navy yard, which somewhat explains why Clint didn’t see that blond-haired asshole come back out the other day.

He doesn’t let himself dwell on it. As soon as he’s out, he takes off running across the concrete, heading for the street. He’s not supposed to meet James until noon, so odds are he’s still at home, or possibly out walking Lucky or something. Clint prays to whoever’s listening that his uncanny luck for finding him holds out one more time.

It does. He’s only a few blocks from James’s apartment building when they literally run into each other. Clint bounces off him— _built like a fucking tank_ , he thinks distantly as he hits the ground—and has to scramble back to his feet.

“What the fuck,” James says angrily, but the anger fades immediately when he recognizes Clint. “Oh, hey! What’s up? I thought we were meeting at noon—”

“I gotta talk to you,” Clint says, grabbing his hand. “Right now. Somewhere private.”

“I—” James looks a little surprised, but there’s a sudden edge to him. A wariness. Clint’s seen it before, in the fights with the tracksuit guys, but now he can put a reasoning to it.

James Barnes, the Winter Soldier. Deadly, highly talented assassin with hundreds of kills credited to his name.

_He’s also very good at kissing_ , his mind adds, and Clint fights the bizarre urge to laugh. “Please,” he says. “It’s urgent. Like, really, really urgent.”

“Okay.” James curls his fingers into Clint’s, and Clint feels a little thrill in his stomach at that. “Okay. Sure. We can go to my place.” He looks carefully at Clint’s face. “Are you okay? You look really freaked out about something.”

“I am a little freaked out,” Clint says. “And you will be too, in a minute, and I’m sorry in advance, but I have to.”

“Why—”

He stops as a panel van suddenly pulls up in front of them, veering onto the sidewalk to cut them off. “Jesus!” Clint yells, stepping backwards. “Watch where you’re going, you maniac!”

The side of the van opens, and there’s an outpouring of guys in familiar tracksuits. “For fucks sake,” James groans quietly. “Bros. What’s the problem this time?”

“Get in the van, bro,” one of them says. Viktor, from the park. He aims a sub-machine gun at James. “Right now, bro. In the van.”

“Guys,” James says, letting go of Clint’s hand to put his up. Clint mimics him. “Is this about the rent? Because I’m working on it, and you said I had a week.”

“Not about money, bro.” Viktor points at the van. “Get in.”

James looks over at Clint, who shrugs. “They’ve got guns,” he says. “We don’t.” He pointedly nods towards the nearby civilians, all of whom look terrified. They _could_ fight—or rather, James could—but the risk of the bystanders getting hurt is too high. Clint does not trust these guys to aim worth a damn.

James looks like he wants to protest, but after a moment, his shoulders slump slightly. “Fine,” he mutters. He awkwardly clambers into the van, settling himself on the floor. Clint climbs in after him, and the others do too.

Viktor barks something in Russian to the guy in front, and the van pulls away. He turns back to James. “Jacket off, bro.”

“Seriously?”

He levels the gun. “Off.”

“Fucks sake,” James sighs. His eyes are alert, carefully monitoring the guns pointed at him. “Tell your guys to ease off the guns, and I will.”

“No way, bro.”

“You’ve already got me in the van, Viktor. I’m not going anywhere. I don’t want to get shot because one of your guys is twitchy.” He looks over at Clint. “Don’t want him getting shot, either.”

Viktor looks confused at this. “Igor?”

“Not Igor. Him.” James points at Clint. Except they can’t see him, so it really does look like he’s pointing at Igor.

“That _is_ Igor,” Viktor says, still sounding confused.

The whole situation is a little comical, honestly, and if they weren’t being held at gunpoint, Clint would probably let it play out. But they are, so he just shifts his weight and says, “They can’t see me.”

James stares at him. “I...what? They can’t _see_ you?”

“I’m a ghost,” Clint says. “I think. I’m something, anyway.”

“You’re a...” James looks around, then back to Clint. He looks utterly lost. “But...”

“It’s kind of a long story,” Clint says. “Like, really long. But basically, I’m dead, and they can’t see me.”

“What the _fuck?_ ”

Viktor snaps his fingers, getting more annoyed by the second. Clint feels no sympathy “Jacket, bro. Off. Now.”

“I’ll explain in a bit,” Clint says. “But right now you should probably do what he says.”

James stares at him a little longer, then reaches for his jacket. He unzips it and pulls it off his shoulders. “Here,” he says, tossing it to Viktor. “I want that back, that’s my favorite one.”

Viktor rifles through the pockets, then hands it to another guy. “Shoes, bro.”

“What?”

“Shoes.”

James growls something very rude, then unties his boots and throws them at Viktor.

“Shirt,” Viktor says, catching them.

“Oh for fucks sake,” James snaps. “If you want me to strip, would you just fucking say it?”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Clint says, then claps a hand over his mouth as he realizes he said that out loud.

James glances at him—apparently rolling with the whole ghost revelation for now—and for a moment the annoyance in his eyes drops in favor of a mischievous glint. “Yeah?” he mutters under his breath, too quiet for anyone else to hear. “That so?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, grinning at him.

Viktor looks faintly disgusted at the thought of James stripping. “Checking for weapons, bro,” he says. He pulls a knife out of James’s right boot. “See?”

“Right,” James sighs, tugging his shirt off over his head.

Clint watches with interest, then lets out a low whistle of appreciation. “Goddamn,” he says, eyeing the abs and the chest and the _everything_ being revealed in front of him. He practically has to sit on his hands to keep himself from touching. “I mean, I wish we were in better circumstances, but... _goddamn_.”

James snickers quietly and throws his shirt at Viktor. “Let me guess,” he says. “Pants?”

“Pants,” Viktor agrees, still looking faintly disgusted. James rolls his eyes and wriggles out of his jeans, leaving him in nothing but a pair of black boxers.

“Goddamn,” Clint says for the third time, because he doesn’t know what else to say. James is built like a Greek god, all hard lines of muscle and sinew. He’s stripped down to his fucking underwear, and yet everything about him is radiating power and danger. He’s James, sure, but Clint can also see the Winter Soldier underneath him. Tightly held in check, but still there. Waiting.

James casts him a quick look of amusement, then looks back at Viktor. “If you want the rest, you’re gonna have to buy me dinner first,” he says. “I don’t usually like to get naked on the first date.”

“Oh good,” Clint says. “So you and I can, then? Because this is our third date, I think. If we can count this as a date.”

“Sure,” James agrees, clearly trying not to smile.

“Shut up,” Viktor says, and holds a hand out. One of the other guys gives him a pair of connected, weirdly thick gauntlet-looking things, and he tosses them at James. “Put these on, bro.”

James goes deadly still. The color drains from his face, the amusement traded for worry and fear in a heartbeat. He turns the gauntlets over in his hand, and says quietly, “How did you get these?”

“Cuffs on, bro,” Viktor instructs. “Now. Or we shoot you.”

“Tell me how you got these.”

“Cuffs on.”

“Tell me how you got them!” He raises his voice and leans forward. Instantly, every gun comes up, aimed directly at him.

James freezes. His eyes dart around the van, clearly counting guns and possible exits. But it’s six-on-one, and even for the Winter Soldier, Clint feels like that’s a lot. He might be able to fight his way out, but there’s no way it’s happening without a life-threatening injury, or crashing the van and hurting civilians.

“James,” he says softly, and puts his hand on James’s arm. “Don’t, man. We’ll get through this. But this isn’t the moment.”

James glances over at him, tenseness and terror in every line of his body. There’s a long, horrible second where Clint thinks he’s going to go for it anyway, and his stomach clenches. But then James slumps against the side of the van and awkwardly slides his arms in, parallel to each other, forearms stacked. They cover practically from his wrists to his elbows, and close with an ominous _clank_ that makes Clint wince.

Everyone seems to relax a little after that. Viktor points at him with a stubby finger. “No make trouble, bro,” he says. “Or we shock you.”

“Yeah,” James mutters, sounding sick. He thumps his head against the side of the van. “Whatever.”

“You need demonstrate?”

“No.” He clenches his fists. “I remember very clearly what they do, thanks.”

Clint puts a hand on his arm again. “Easy,” he says. “We’ll get out of this.”

James looks at him, still clearly terrified. “Okay,” is all he says, and Clint can tell he doesn’t believe it at all.

* * *

The bros finally park the van after an hour of driving. Viktor grabs James’s arm and pulls him out. Clint follows, sticking close enough that Viktor actually walks through him a couple times. James sees this, but other than a slight widening of his eyes, he makes no comment on it.

They’re at some kind of house. It’s big and fancy; Clint doesn’t get much of a chance to pinpoint anything more exact than that before the door closes behind them. They’re still in the city, at least, so that’s something.

The bros haul James inside, and take him down some stairs into a very empty basement. “Gonna stay here bro,” Viktor informs him. “Some guys wanna talk with you, bro. Wanna talk real bad.”

“I’m sure they do,” James says tiredly. He’s very pale. “That gonna happen soon, or...”

“Relax, bro.” Viktor grins like a shark. “We take care of it.”

“That’s not relaxing,” James mutters. Viktor just chuckles and goes back up the stairs, leaving Clint and James alone in the basement. He flicks the light off too, leaving them with nothing but the weak sunlight filtering through a dirty window.

Clint scans the room, but there’s nothing that can be used as a weapon. Literally, nothing. The entire room is empty, other than the two support beams and a few doors. James tries them all, awkwardly twisting the knobs with his cuffed hands, but they don’t open. Clint watches warily as he kicks the last one in frustration, then rests his forehead against it. He takes a deep breath, almost looking like he’s about to break down.

“Okay,” he says after a full minute, turning back to Clint, appearing for the moment to have himself under control. “Okay. I think we need to have a talk.”

“I’ll say.” Clint tries to be polite and not stare at him, then gives up and stares anyway. What can he say? James is _hot_ , and Clint’s only human. Human-adjacent, anyway. And it’s been a _long_ time.

James raises an eyebrow at him, a corner of his mouth quirking up. “See something you like?”

“Oh, _definitely_ ,” Clint says, then forces his brain to refocus. This is not the time. “But later.”

“Later,” James agrees. He sinks down to the floor and leans against the door. Clint mirrors his movement, putting his back against a support pole.

They look at each other for a long moment, air thick with tension. Then Clint laughs a little and rubs a hand over his face. “I’m not really sure where to start,” he admits.

“Maybe the ghost thing,” James says. “Because I’ve heard some weird shit in my life, but I think that tops it.” He shakes his head. “How the hell are you _dead?_ ”

“Well...”

He tells the story from the beginning, right from the moment he woke up on the sidewalk. James doesn’t interrupt him at all, not even when Clint has to stop, taking a couple deep breaths to keep himself from crying. It still hurts to think about, all those months of isolation and sadness. How it felt to watch his teammates grieve, and then move on without him.

“Anyway,” he says, voice shakier than he would like, “that’s why I kind of freaked out in the park. That first time. I hadn’t even spoken to anybody in months, and you just started talking to me, and I could _touch_ you... I didn’t know how to react.”

“That makes more sense,” James murmurs. “I really thought you were on drugs.”

Clint tries for a smile. “Nope. Just a little touch-starved.”

James nods. “Go on.”

Clint tells him the rest. James’s expression gets darker as he covers the last few days, and it’s downright thunderous by the time he mentions Sitwell and Project Infinity.

“So that’s pretty much it,” he says. “I’ve got some of the puzzle together.” He gestures towards James. “I was sort of hoping you could fill in the rest.”

James twists his fists in the cuffs, looking uncomfortable. “Some of what I told you is true,” he says. “I was in the Army. In a special unit. With my best friend.” He takes a deep breath. “You know him.”

“I do?”

“Steve Rogers.”

Clint stares at him, aware on some level that his mouth is actually hanging open. “I...wait, _what?_ ”

“I’m James Buchanan Barnes,” James says tiredly. “Bucky, to my friends. Born in 1917. I signed up to join the Army during the Second World War. I left my best friend behind, thinking he would be safe as a 4F. Then like a moron, he volunteered himself to be experimented on, and they made him into Captain America. Him, and me, and some other guys, we all made a special unit to take down Hydra.”

“The Howling Commandos,” Clint says, recalling what little history he remembers from what little school he attended. “Yeah.” He rubs a hand through his hair. “Steve doesn’t talk about you much. Doesn’t talk much about the war in general.”

“It’s a hard thing to think about,” James says softly. “It was so big, but it wasn’t at the same time. You knew there were guys fighting in Italy, and in Africa, but it didn’t matter so much when you were the one being shot at. Then it was just you and the guy next to you in the foxhole, neither of you sure if you were gonna live to see tomorrow.”

He shakes his head, suddenly looking years older. “Anyway. So we were trying to get to a scientist. Zola. He was on a train. We zip-lined on, and there was a fight...” He trails off.

“You fell,” Clint says. “I remember reading about it. You died.”

“I fell,” James agrees. “But I didn’t die. I woke up in a snowbank, missing an arm.”

“Missing...an arm?”

“Yeah.”

“But you have two arms,” Clint points out, feeling somewhat like an idiot. “Unless I’m imagining one.”

“No, it’s real. They gave me a new one. Hydra. It’s metal, it’s...” He shifts again. “I can’t show you right now. Cuffs are in the way. But anyway, I didn’t die. Some Russian soldiers found me there, in the snow. They took me in, took care of me for a few days. And then the Red Room found me.” He swallows hard and adds, “Hydra adjacent. Which turned into Hydra, after awhile.”

“Right.”

“They, uh...” James shakes his head. “They did some shit. Brainwashing. Mind wipes. Used this machine to destroy my memories. Made me forget everything. Forget Steve.”

His voice cracks at that, and he stops. Clint bites his tongue, not sure what to say. _Sorry that happened to you_ seems entirely inadequate.

James takes a shuddering breath and carries on. “So they emptied me. Filled me up with their shit, and called me the Asset. The Winter Soldier. I spent years under their control. Doing missions and killing people for them.”

“But that was so long ago,” Clint says. “And you’re way too good-looking to be a hundred years old.”

It’s a lame attempt at a joke, but James huffs out a little laugh anyway. “I’m only ninety-seven, for the record. Anyway, they’d freeze me in between missions. Put me on ice.” He bites at his lower lip, then adds, “It was like sleeping, but worse. I wasn’t really asleep. Wasn’t really awake, either.”

“Jesus,” Clint mutters. He thinks about Steve, and how he’d been frozen too. He’s never talked about it, but Clint’s noticed he goes out of his way to not be cold whenever possible. _It’s gotta be miserable, being frozen like that._

James shivers. “I don’t like to think about it.”

“No fucking kidding. It sounds awful.”

“It was.” He swallows, then says, “A few years ago, they sent me on a mission to hit the Sanctum.”

“Isn’t that—“

“Where I work, yeah.” James smiles. “I was sent to get something. I don’t remember what. That’s when I met Dr. Strange. Took him all of five minutes to take me out. Thought he was going to kill me. But he didn’t. He took me in and hid me from Hydra instead. Helped me get my memories back.”

“How?”

“He’s a wizard.” At Clint’s skeptical look, James laughs. “I know. But he is. Technically, he’s a Master of the Mystic Arts. It’s his job to help protect our world. Our reality, really. From all threats. Dealing with a brainwashed assassin was like child’s play for him. Once I stopped trying to kill him, anyway.”

“I want to say that sounds ridiculous,” Clint says, “but I’m a ghost, so I feel like maybe it’s not.”

James looks thoughtful. “I don’t think you are, actually.”

“You don’t think I’m a ghost?”

“I’m working on a theory. Give me some time.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, long story short. Strange helped me put myself back together, gave me a job, and helped me find an apartment. I owe him a lot. I wouldn’t be here at all if it wasn’t for him.”

Clint nods. “All that and a cape, huh?” He chuckles at James’s eye roll. “I’d like to meet him.”

“Yeah, he’s a good guy.” James scowls down at the cuffs. “We’d be able to if they’d just take these fucking things off.”

“Why, you got a distress signal in your watch or something?”

“Or something.”

Clint blinks. “Wait, really?”

“Really.”

Clint tries to see if James is kidding or not, but he doesn’t think so. “Okay. So you’re actually James Bond, not James Barnes. Good to know.”

It’s another stupid joke, but James laughs anyway. “You’re an idiot,” he says fondly.

“Been established,” Clint assures him. “So what’s your theory on me?”

“Just told you. You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah? Well, you’re a jerk.”

“Been established,” James says, and Clint can’t help but smile. “Come sit next to me, will you?”

Clint crawls over to him, tucking up against his side. “Sorry our third date has to be here,” he says, putting his head on James’s shoulder.

“Sorry I got you wrapped up in this.”

“Don’t start that. I didn’t have to get into that van. They can’t see me, remember? I could’ve walked.”

“Yeah.” The word is contemplative. There’s a silence beyond it for a little bit, and then he says, “Why didn’t you?”

Clint shrugs. “I like you.”

“I like you too, but I’m not sure I would’ve gotten in a van full of guys holding submachine guns.”

“They can’t see me,” Clint says again. “Also, bullets go through me. Most things go through me. I wasn’t ever in danger. And I sure as fuck wasn’t gonna let those guys take you alone.”

James nods. “Well, I appreciate it,” he says. “It’s nice to have someone to talk to.”

“I wish I could help more.”

James’s fingers wind into his, as much as they can. “You’re helping,” he says. “Trust me. Talking with you—it’s keeping me together.” He takes a deep breath. “As together as I can be, anyway.”

Clint nods. “I like you,” he says again. “I wouldn’t let you do this by yourself.”

There’s another silence between them. Clint can tell that James is still tense, still worried about what’s coming next, but he’s at least staying somewhat calm about it. Which means that Clint needs to stay calm too. No point in either of them getting worked up.

“Question,” James says after a while.

“Yeah?”

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“That you’re...whatever you are. A ghost. Not fully here.”

Clint thinks for a moment. “I mean...I guess it would’ve come up at some point.” He shrugs. “I could only avoid getting dinner with you for so long.”

James nods, tilting his head to lean against Clint’s. “Makes sense, I guess.” He pauses, then says, “Man, that must have looked weird as hell when I kissed you.”

“I thought about that,” Clint says, unable to stop the grin spreading across his face. “But this is New York. Weird shit happens every day. Most people just go ‘huh’ and move on.”

“True.” James turns his head slightly. “Well, if they did, I didn’t notice.”

“Because I was distracting you.”

“You were. Very nicely.” James rubs his thumb over Clint’s hand, and says, “You could again. If you wanted.”

“What, distract you?”

“Yeah.”

Clint huffs out a laugh and shifts to look at him. “You think that’s a good idea right now?”

James shrugs. “What else are we gonna do? I can’t get out of these cuffs, all the doors are locked, there’s guys with submachines guarding us upstairs, and you can’t walk through walls. So unless you’ve got any brilliant ideas...”

“Fair point.”

“Worse ways to pass the time,” James says quietly. “Besides, if Hydra’s gonna drag me back and wipe my mind again, I’d like my last memory to be something decent.” He smiles like he’s joking, but the terror is back in his eyes, and Clint’s heart twists a little at the sight.

“I won’t let them,” he says, squeezing James’s hand. “I’ll think of something. Find Dr. Strange or whatever and see if I can get through to him. If you can see me, maybe he can too?”

James looks thoughtful again. “Maybe,” he says after a moment. “That’s part of my theory, anyway.”

“You ever gonna tell me?”

“Still in progress,” James says with a slight smile. “Check back later.”

“Kay,” Clint agrees. He leans forward a little. “Still wanna be distracted?”

“Definitely,” James says, and meets him the rest of the way. It’s not quite the heated kiss of their first encounter, and it’s a little uncomfortable with the angles and James being cuffed, but they make it work.

_Could totally do this forever_ , Clint officially decides, shifting a little bit more onto his knees and sliding one hand up around James’s face. He gently tilts his head, traces the tip of his tongue over James’s bottom lip, smiling a bit as James makes a soft noise and opens for him—

Except forever is interrupted, _again_ , only this time by an explosion instead of a dog. Clint immediately pulls back, looking up towards the ceiling. “I swear to God,” he says, “one of these days we’re going to do this without any damn interruptions.”

“Yeah,” James says, struggling to his feet. “Also, what the fuck was that?”

“I don’t know.” Clint starts to move towards the stairs, then remembers he doesn’t have a body. “Go yell at the door or something, see if you can get an answer?”

James looks less than thrilled about this, but he nods and moves that way. As soon as his foot lands on the steps, though, the door bursts open. Light spills down the steps, illuminating James in a wash of yellow.

There’s a figure at the top of the stairs. Clint can’t really see him clearly, but James apparently recognizes him, judging by the delighted look that suddenly appears on his face. “Strange,” he says, sounding relieved. “Holy shit, I’m glad to see you.”

“Barnes,” comes an even reply, and the most interesting guy Clint’s ever seen in his life comes down the stairs. Based on James’s description, he was vaguely picturing Strange to look like he’d walked out of _Harry Potter_. But there’s no flowing robes or wizard hats. Strange is younger than expected, with dark hair and a mustache. He’s wearing what looks like a blue kimono, with a wide belt and an eye-shaped necklace draped around his neck.

He does at least have the cape, which is pretty much everything Clint was imagining it would be. It seems to flow around him with a mind of its own, red fabric twisting in some kind of invisible wind. For half a second, Clint is pretty sure it _waves_ at him.

“How’d you know I was here?” James asks.

“I didn’t. I was following some interesting chatter, and it led me here.” He looks at the cuffs on James’s arms, then does some gesture with his fingers. The cuffs fall to the ground, and James rubs his wrists gratefully. “Who’s your friend?”

Clint blinks. “You can see me?”

“Of course I can see you,” Strange says, and then looks a little closer at Clint. His eyes widen slightly. “Oh, _interesting_.”

“What? What’s interesting?”

James reaches back, taking Clint’s hand. “Clint, this is Dr. Strange,” he says. “Dr. Strange, this is Clint Barton.”

“The Avenger?”

“No, the accountant,” Clint says. “What’s interesting?”

“You’re on the astral plane,” Strange says, coming down the last few steps. He walks right into Clint’s personal space and puts a hand on his shoulder. “It’s difficult to see. Very faded, you’ve been there awhile, and you weren’t fully there in the first place. But it’s still visible.”

Clint goes to push his hand off, then freezes. “Hold up,” he says, staring at his hand around Strange’s wrist. “What do you—”

“Strange,” James cuts in, reaching out to separate them. “Can we get out of here, maybe?”

Strange smoothly pulls his hand back, still looking at Clint. “In a moment,” he says. “Wong is upstairs, if you’d like your clothes back.”

“Oh god yes,” James says, and starts towards the stairs. “Clint, you coming?”

“Huh?” Clint’s still stuck on _“you’re on the astral plane”_ and is a little unnerved with the way Strange is studying him.

James pulls on his hand. “Come up with me. I’ll get dressed, and then we can all get out of here and figure stuff out. Okay?”

“I...” Clint looks over his shoulder at Strange, who’s spinning his hand in the air, orange sparks following it. As Clint watches, they coalesce into a _portal_ , through which a couple of bookcases are visible. Strange steps through it and vanishes, the portal disappearing into a flurry of sparks behind him.

“What the fuck,” Clint says, staring at the place where he disappeared before turning to look at James. “I—what the _fuck?_ ”

James grins at him. “I’ll explain in a minute,” he says. “I want pants first. Okay?”

“Sure,” Clint agrees faintly, and lets James pull him up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot), and by [flowerparrish](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/flowerparrish). Thank you!


	7. chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The Avengers aren’t officially SHIELD. We’re separate.” Clint shakes his head. “And there’s no way any of them are Hydra material. I promise you. We were trying to take out a Hydra base when this shit happened.” He gestures to himself. “They’ll help, I swear. They’re already pretty sure there’s something going on down in the Navy yard, or at least Tony is. If we bring them up to speed, that’s just more power for our side. They’ve been gunning for Hydra ever since I died.”

James gets his clothes back, and Clint officially decides he looks just as good getting dressed as he does getting undressed. He prefers the latter, but James in a tight pair of jeans is still a sight to behold.

“This is Wong,” James says, nodding at the round Asian man sitting at a table with a laptop. “He’s the keeper of the ancient books, a Master of the Mystic Arts, and Strange’s sidekick.”

Wong snaps his head up from the computer. “Barnes—”

“I’m kidding,” James says, grinning at him. “I’m glad you’re here. It’s good to see you.”

“You as well. Who’s your friend?”

“Clint Barton,” Clint says, holding his hand out on habit.

Surprisingly—or maybe not—Wong shakes it. “The Avenger?”

“No, the architect.”

James snorts. “How did you guys find us?”

“We’ve been tracking some interesting chatter. It led us here.”

“Yeah, that’s what Strange said. What kind of chatter?”

“The Hydra kind,” Wong says grimly, and James’s hands freeze in the middle of zipping up his jacket. “But I think you already knew that.”

“I guessed,” James murmurs, looking pale. “They had the cuffs that Hydra would use to restrain me. When I would get...” He trails off and shakes his head. “Where are the bros?”

A corner of Wong’s mouth twitches up. “Russia.”

Clint looks at him. “What? How did you get them to _Russia_?”

“Sling rings,” Wong says, like that clears everything up. James nods, and sits down to pull his boots back on. “Barnes, how did you end up here?”

“It’s a story,” James says. “If you can get us back to the Sanctum, I’d like to tell you and Strange together. There’s something weird going on here.”

Wong nods. “I would agree.” He looks at Clint again, then squints slightly. “You are not fully here.”

“Apparently I’m on the astral plane,” Clint says. “Whatever the fuck that means.”

“I can explain it,” James tells him. “Well. Strange can explain it better. But we should get out of here.”

“I agree.” Wong stands up and puts one hand out, displaying some kind of golden ring. Clint’s about to make a quip about brass knuckles when Wong moves his other hand in a circle, and the golden sparks appear again. Another world forms in front of him, like he’s looking through a doorway. There’s a grand staircase, and a hallway behind it, and some kind of marble flooring.

Clint rubs his eyes hard, but the portal’s still there when he looks again. “What...”

James laughs and takes his hand. “Come on. It won’t hurt, I promise.”

“What is that?”

“It’s a dimensional gateway,” James says. “Like a door, just into another space instead of a room.”

“Is that what Cape Guy did downstairs?”

As if he was summoned, Strange sticks his head into view from the other side. “My name is Doctor Steven Strange,” he says. “Not...Cape Guy.” He beckons them. “Come. We all have things to discuss.”

Clint lets James pull him through the portal, still a little dazed. “I’m guessing this is the Sanctum,” he says, spinning on the spot, trying to match interior points to the architecture he knows.

“Yes.” James tugs him out of the way so Wong can get through. “Those are the main doors, there. This is the first floor.”

“Huh.” Clint spins again, taking it all in.

Strange raises an eyebrow. “Something wrong?”

“Just not what I was expecting,” Clint says. “But I also don’t know what I was expecting, so...”

“Take a seat.”

Clint starts to ask where, but then the world shifts around him. Like taking a step, except the _ground_ moves instead of him, and he suddenly finds himself in a high-backed leather chair, and in a completely different room than a second ago.

Clint scrambles to his feet, backing away from the chair, and Strange, who is sitting opposite him with an expectant look. “What the _fuck_ —”

“Strange,” James says, disapproval in his voice. “He’s new, don’t do that to him. It’s bad enough when you _are_ expecting it.”

Clint backs away from all of them, looking around frantically. “Alright, before I lose my goddamn mind, can someone please explain what the _hell_ is going on here?” His voice is higher-pitched than he would like, but he’s too freaked out to really control it. He’s seen some shit in his days, including himself, but this is just...he doesn’t even know where to _start_.

“Sit,” Strange says, gesturing to the leather chair. “Please.”

James takes Clint’s hand again. “Hey,” he says softly. “I know it’s weird, but just stay with me for a moment, okay? This will make sense when you let him talk.” He steps in front of Clint, filling up his vision, blue eyes sincere. “Can you trust me?”

Clint takes a couple controlled breaths, focusing on the feel of James’s hand in his. “Okay,” he says. “Yeah. I trust you.”

Distantly, he thinks that’s an odd statement for him to make. He’s only known James for a week, really, and neither of them are the trusting types. But as he says it, he realizes it’s true.

“Good,” James says, and guides him back to the chair. “Strange, no more of that. Please.”

“My apologies,” Strange says, not sounding apologetic at all. “Sit, Mr. Barton. Please.”

Clint sits. “Just Clint is fine. Or Hawkeye.”

“So you are the Avenger, then.” Strange studies him with a curious, almost clinical gaze. “I thought you died.”

“I thought that too,” Clint says, realizing that James’s hand is still in his. But James doesn’t let go, so neither does he. “But I’m still here. Sort of.”

“You’re on the astral plane,” Strange says again. “Partially.”

“See, you said that before, and I still don’t know what the fuck that means.”

Strange sighs. “This,” he says, gesturing around them, “is the material plane. Most things exist here. The astral plane coexists alongside it. It’s accessible only when separated from one’s physical form.” He steeples his fingers together and leans forward. “So what separated you from your physical form?”

“Freaky Hydra ray gun,” Clint says, trying to process all of that. “I saw some pictures. I can describe it for you if you want. And Tony Stark’s got video of my...death saved somewhere.”

Strange nods. “That would all be helpful, yes.” He taps his index fingers together, considering something. “In any case, that’s what’s happened to you. Currently, you’re existing in a state of pure energy, trapped between the dimensions. Not fully there, not fully here either. It’s interesting. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

He sounds delighted about it, like Clint is some kind of fascinating puzzle to him. Clint isn’t sure how to feel about that. “Can you...is it fixable?”

“I’m not sure.” Strange shrugs. “I’ll have to do some research. Tell me more about it. How has this affected you? What things can you do?”

Clint goes through the same story he told James, or at least the bare bones of it. Enough to give Strange the necessary information, sans emotions. He doesn’t really think he can crack his heart open again like that.

James, for his part, doesn’t move. He sits on the arm of the chair and keeps one hand firmly wrapped in Clint’s. His other hand gently scratches through Clint’s hair, making little soothing circles along the nape of his neck. It feels damn good, really, and Clint has to devote some attention to not totally melting into it.

“And then you guys showed up,” he says, finishing it. “That’s pretty much it.”

Strange is quiet for a moment, absorbing all the information. “That sounds like what we were hearing,” he says to Wong, who nods. His expression is dark.

“What are you guys hearing?” James asks.

Wong taps the laptop still tucked under his arm. “There’s been warning from the Hong Kong and London Sanctums both. Apparently Hydra is on an intense search for the Infinity Stones.”

Clint doesn’t know what that means, but James goes pale at the words. “No,” he says. “They can’t—have they—”

“They don’t,” Wong says, holding up a hand. “But they’re looking. Specifically, they’re looking for the Time Stone.”

“Which we know is safe,” Strange adds.

Clint looks around at them. “What’s a Time Stone?”

Strange does something with his fingers, moving them in a specific pattern. The eye-shaped necklace around his neck opens, revealing a green, glowing stone. “This is,” he says. “It’s one of the six infinity stones. Six singularities that existed before creation itself. When the universe exploded into existence, these singularities became concentrated, forming Infinity Stones, each with their own set of capabilities. This is the Time Stone.”

“Let me guess,” Clint says with a smirk, because this is all just _so_ ridiculous. “It manipulates time?”

“Precisely.” Strange closes the necklace.

The smirk fades a bit as he looks at Strange, and then Wong, both of whom look completely serious. “I...” He shakes his head. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

“They’re not,” James says, patting his shoulder.

He shakes his head again. “This is so goddamn weird.”

“I’m aware,” Strange says, and some of the condescension fades from his voice. “I was a doctor, before this. A neurosurgeon. I was as skeptical as they come. But this is all very real, Hawkeye, and we’re going to need your help by the end of it.” He tilts his head, studying Clint intensely. “Can we count on you?”

“You can,” Clint says. “I’m just...” He shrugs helplessly. “Two days ago magic wasn’t real, and now it is, and I’m just sort of...”

James squeezes his hand. “We know. It’s weird for anyone at first.”

“It was not weird for me,” Wong says, sounding a little affronted. “I was very—”

“Not the moment,” James tells him. He looks at Clint. “The Stone manipulates time, yes. It can reverse it, create loops, allow us to see into infinite probabilities, and do a whole bunch of other time-related things that we really don’t want Hydra getting into.”

Clint suddenly has a wild image of Sitwell getting into a DeLorean, and quickly shakes his head before he starts laughing. “Right. Well, they know it’s here. I don’t think they know exactly where, but they’re planning on doing something at the end of the month.” He looks at James. “And they want you back, too. They were talking about using code words. Something about embedded triggers.”

Strange clears his throat. “They will not be able to get to the Stone,” he says. “Even if they’re working with another Master—which we suspect they might be—I have multiple defenses set up around it. Simple spells, but quite unbreakable. And as for James...”

“The code words don’t work anymore,” James interrupts. He sounds sure, but his hand squeezes tightly around Clint’s. “We wiped them out. All the brainwashing shit they put in me is gone.”

“It is,” Strange agrees, eyes flicking to James with mild concern. “I promise, Barnes. We tested it, remember?”

“I know.” James rubs a hand over his face. “I’m just...I know.”

Clint puts a hand on his knee. “I won’t let them,” he says, looking up at him. “They’re not gonna touch you again.”

It’s not a promise he can really uphold, at least as long as he’s got this useless ghost body, but it seems to calm James at least a little bit. He lets out a long breath and nods, his hand loosening slightly. “Thank you.”

Clint pats his knee and turns to the others. “We have to tell the Avengers,” he says. “My friends.”

“How do you know we can trust them?” Strange looks skeptical. “You just told us that SHIELD and Hydra are intertwined.”

“The Avengers aren’t officially SHIELD. We’re separate.” Clint shakes his head. “And there’s no way any of them are Hydra material. I promise you. We were trying to take out a Hydra base when this shit happened.” He gestures to himself. “They’ll help, I swear. They’re already pretty sure there’s something going on down in the Navy yard, or at least Tony is. If we bring them up to speed, that’s just more power for our side. They’ve been gunning for Hydra ever since I died.”

“He’s got a point,” James says. “I mean, otherwise it’s you two, whatever other Masters you can scrounge up on short notice, me, and Casper over here.” Clint snorts, and James grins at him. “So it wouldn’t hurt to have more hands on deck.”

Strange eyes him for a moment, then says, “You realize what that means, Barnes.”

“I do.”

“I don’t,” Clint says, glancing between them, noting the sudden tension in James.

“Rogers doesn’t know he’s alive,” Wong explains. “Other than Hydra, and now you, we’re the only ones who know.”

“It’s fine,” James says, although he looks a little ill at the thought. “It’s okay. If it’ll help stop Hydra...” He trails off.

Strange claps his hands and gets to his feet. “Alright, then,” he says. “Let me do some quick research and see if I can’t figure out what to do with him for the short term.” He points at Clint. “Barnes, why don’t you and Ghost Boy come up with a game plan for contacting the Avengers.”

“Hang on,” Clint protests. “If I can’t call you Cape Guy, you don’t get to call me Ghost Boy.”

Strange smirks and continues talking. “Wong, you keep an ear to the ground and see if you can’t figure out who Hydra is working with. There’s no way they’re pulling all of this off on their own.”

“Got it,” Wong says, taking the laptop. “I’ll talk with Kamar-Taj, too. See if they know anything.”

“Sounds good,” Strange says and _literally_ vanishes.

Clint decides not to comment on that. “Okay,” he says, turning to James. “How do we want to play this?”

James takes a deep breath. “I’m not sure,” he says. “But we should probably bring them all back here. We don’t know if the Tower is bugged, and I really shouldn’t be walking in the front doors. I shouldn’t even go near it. I’ve been avoiding it ever since I got away.”

“We could do the portal thing,” Clint says. “Right into the Tower.”

“Too risky. What if someone else is there? Someone from Hydra, or SHIELD?”

“Mmm.” Clint thinks for a moment. “We can contact Natasha. Send her a message and a phone number; she and I had a whole system set up for that. Then we can talk to her, and she can bring the others in.”

“Okay,” James says. “Let’s start with that.”

* * *

They go out and buy a couple of burner phones, and bring them back to the Sanctum. James guides him into some kind of mini kitchen, and Clint tells him what to text Natasha.

“How long do you think it’ll take?” James asks as he hits _send_.

“Don’t know.” Clint stares at the phone. “It might be a long shot. It’s possible she didn’t even keep the phones. They were just for us, so after I died...” He waves a hand. “Let’s give it a few hours.”

“You don’t think she would’ve kept them?”

“She’s not the sentimental type.”

“It sounds like you were pretty important to her, from what you’ve told me.”

Clint closes his eyes, feeling his heart twist. “She’s my best friend. We...we’ve been partners for a long time. Years, really.” He thinks about the way she looked that first night, how she’d thrown the glass of whiskey against the window. The way she’d walked around for weeks afterwards, on edge and wound up. “I was supposed to kill her. That’s how we met. She was my target. But when I got up close, I ended up making a different call. I brought her into SHIELD instead.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s incredible,” he says honestly. “And there’s no one else like her, and killing her would have made the world a worse place. So I asked her to come in.”

“And she agreed?”

“It took persuading.” He points at a scar on his arm. “And some stabbing. But I got her to trust me in the end. They partnered us up, because she wouldn’t work with anyone else. We’ve been friends ever since then.”

James studies him for a moment. “I think she kept the phones.”

“You do?”

“If you’re even half as important to her as she is to you, she kept them. I promise.”

Tears burn in Clint’s eyes, and he wipes them quickly with the back of his hand. “We’ll see, I guess.”

James gently pulls him into a hug. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not easy, having your friends think you’re dead.”

Clint lets out a shaky laugh. “Yeah, I guess you would.” He leans his head against James’s and takes a couple calming breaths. “Why didn’t you ever tell Steve?”

James stiffens a bit, then steps back. Clint winces. “I didn’t mean—you don’t have to—” He rubs a hand through his hair and tries for a smile. “Uh...waffles?”

There’s a beat of silence, and then James snickers. “We’ve _got_ to have a better code word,” he says, relaxing a little bit.

“At least it’s entertaining,” Clint says, sitting in one of the chairs.

James goes to one of the cabinets, pulling down a mug. “There is that. I’m gonna make some coffee, do you—” He stops. “Never mind.”

“I’d love coffee,” Clint says wistfully. “Have some extra for me.”

“Sure.”

He clatters around the little kitchen, every movement slow and deliberate. Clint watches him closely, noting the tense line of his shoulders and the carefully blank expression on his face. “I’m sorry,” he says after a moment. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No.” James presses a button on the coffeemaker. “It’s okay. Really.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“I want to.” He doesn’t move, keeping one hand on the coffeemaker and his back to Clint. “Just...give me a second.”

Clint clamps his mouth shut and makes himself wait patiently. James lets the coffee brew, then pours himself a cup and sits down at the table, staring into his mug like it’s got all the answers. There’s a long silence between them, extending for several minutes. Clint is about to tell him not to worry about it when James curls his other hand around the mug and says, “I didn’t tell him because I was scared.”

Clint nods.

“I was messed up after Hydra,” James says. He lets out a bitter laugh. “Really messed up. I barely remembered my own name on a good day. It took Wong and Strange a long time to get me to anything resembling a person again.”

He takes a sip of the coffee. “I was going to tell him, once I had enough of myself together. I really was. I had a whole plan. And then I saw him. He was out with Stark. They were walking somewhere. He was smiling. Laughing at something Stark said. And I just...I couldn’t do it.”

He looks up, meeting Clint’s eyes with some kind of desperation. “He’s got a life here. He’s got friends, and a job, and he’s the same old Steve, you know?” He lets out a shuddering breath. “But I’m not the same old Bucky. I don’t remember who that was, anymore. I’m someone very different now. That’s why I go by James.”

“You were afraid of disappointing him,” Clint says.

James nods. “Disappointing him, and disrupting his life. I knew that if I told him I was alive, he’d drop everything and help me. But I also knew that Hydra would still be looking, and I didn’t want to put him in the crosshairs.” He takes another drink and adds, “I’m not Bucky. I’m never gonna be Bucky again. And I decided I didn’t want him risking his life for a shadow of the guy who used to be his best friend.”

He looks miserable about this, and Clint leans across the table to put a hand over his. “I’m sorry.”

James shrugs, trying for casual and not quite making it. “So that’s why I never told him. But now I have to. We’ll need them to help. And I just...I don’t know what to say.”

“I’ll help you,” Clint promises. “I’ll do whatever you need me to do. It’ll be okay.”

“Yeah,” James says, looking down into his mug. “I’m sure.”

Clint gets up and walks around the table. “It _will_ ,” he says, putting a hand on James’s face and tilting it up. “Steve will be freaked out at first, and then he’ll be glad you’re alive, and then he’ll probably give you some speech about how you should’ve told him before now, how dare you try and keep him safe, he would have gladly risked his life for you, blah blah self-righteous crap.”

James snorts. “Yeah, sounds like Steve.”

“It’ll be fine,” Clint says. “I promise.”

“Okay,” James says, sounding a little more convinced. Clint smiles, then leans down to kiss him.

Their lips barely touch before the phone on the table rings, the sound startling both of them.

“One of these days,” Clint mutters, and moves back. “Answer it. Put it on speaker.”

James does. “Hello.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end, and then Natasha’s voice comes through, clipped and irritated. “Who the hell are you?”

“My name is James.”

“How did you get this number?”

“A mutual friend gave it to me.”

There’s a long pause after that, long enough that Clint thinks maybe she’s hung up. Then she says, “I don’t believe you. Don’t call this number again,” and the line goes dead.

Clint taps his fingers on the table. “In retrospect, I should’ve seen that coming.” He gestures. “Call it again. Tell her you know what happened in Abidjan.”

“What happened in Abidjan?”

He grins. “There was a minor incident involving a Ferrari and some fireworks. It’s not on our SHIELD files, and we swore never to tell anyone else. That should be enough to get her attention.”

James shakes his head, but dials. Natasha answers on the second ring. “I _told_ you—”

“I know what happened in Abidjan,” James says, and Clint can almost hear Natasha freeze. “He told me.”

There’s another long pause, and then she says, “When did he tell you that?”

“Recently.”

“How recently?”

“Today.”

Her voice is as cold as he’s ever heard it. “That’s not possible. He’s dead.”

James looks at Clint and raises an eyebrow. Clint nods.

“He’s not,” James says. “And I can prove it, if you’re willing to meet me.”

“I don’t believe you,” she says again, but there’s an edge of doubt to it. Undetectable to anyone else, probably, but he knows her well enough to hear it.

“You used to be called Natalia,” Clint says, and James repeats him. “You like to wear fuzzy socks to bed, but only if they’re mismatched. You prefer cats over dogs, you like to read horror novels, and your favorite food is _shashlyk_.”

It’s not a comprehensive list, but it’s enough. Clint can hear it in her sharp intake of breath. James stops, and there’s a beat of silence. Then she says, “When and where?”

They arrange a meeting in Madison Square Park for an hour from now, and then James hangs up. “Okay,” he says, looking at Clint. “She’s not going to kill me on sight or anything, is she?” He grins. “Because she’s kind of scary. You didn’t mention that.”

Tension melts from Clint, tension he hadn’t even realized was there, and he laughs. “She’s terrifying,” he agrees. “But she’s so worth it. And no, she won’t kill you on sight. Just be prepared for murder eyes and a lot of suspicion.”

“Great,” James says. “Looking forward to it.”

* * *

They go to the park early. James sits on a bench and looks around. “I’m guessing she’s probably already here.”

“Probably,” Clint says, settling next to him. “But we won’t see her until she wants us to, so it’s really not worth looking for her.” He nudges James. “Any idea what you’re gonna say to Steve?”

“No.” He sighs. “Trying to come up with something better than ‘hey it’s me, your long-dead buddy, I don’t really remember you that well, oh and by the way, I’ve been living in the same city as you for the past three years and never said a word.’”

Clint chuckles. “Yeah, I don’t see that going over well.”

“I could just tell him the truth.” He kicks at the dirt. “I should just tell him, really.”

“Probably. I mean, no matter what you do, you’ll get a sanctimonious speech from him, you know? So you might as well just say it.”

“Fair enough.” James adjusts his watch down his wrist, which suddenly reminds Clint about their conversation in the basement.

“Hey,” he says. “When do I get to see this metal arm?”

James startles, then looks at his arm. “Oh, damn, I forgot. I’ll show you later.” He pats the watch. “Strange enchanted this for me. It’s like a shield, sort of. Helps disguise it so I don’t have to wear jackets all the time.”

Clint pokes at his arm. “But you do wear this jacket all the time. Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”

“You’re one to talk. I’ve never seen you wear anything different either.”

“I’m _dead_ , James. I can’t change clothes. What’s your excuse?”

“You’re not dead, you’re on the astral plane. Big difference.” James smirks at him, and Clint makes a face back.

The moment is interrupted when he sees Natasha. She’s about thirty feet away, standing on the opposite side of the fountain and watching them.

James turns to look. “That her?”

“That’s her.”

“She’s seen us?”

“She’s seen _you_.”

“Ha. Right.” James taps his fingers on his leg. “Will she shoot me if I get closer? She looks like she will.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “She’s not going to shoot you, James. It’s broad daylight. Just stay where you are and let her come to you.”

“Like a wild animal,” he says, but his voice trails off like he’s not really paying attention. He’s looking at her a little more closely. “I...I think I know her?”

Clint blinks. “You what now?”

“I _know_ her,” James repeats, sounding distressed.

“How would you know her? When would you have met?”

“I don’t know,” James says. “There’s still things missing from my memory; it’s not always clear. I don’t—” He cuts himself off, his hand gripping Clint’s thigh like a vise. “Are you _sure_ she’s not Hydra?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Clint pries James’s hand off his leg. “I swear on literally everything. She’s not Hydra.”

James doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t get up and run either, so that’s worth something. Clint winds their fingers together and watches Natasha as she walks over.

She stops a few feet from the bench. There’s something off about the way she’s standing. Clint had expected her to be on guard, but this is almost too much. She looks like she’s about to bolt as much as James is. Her fingers are twitching minutely, like she wants to grab a weapon.

There’s a pregnant pause between them, the tension almost tangible in the air.

Then in a low voice, Natasha says, “ _Soldat_.”

James winces hard, one hand going to his head. Clint immediately turns to him. “What? What? Are you okay?”

He ignores Clint, and after a moment, drops his hand. “ _Pauchok_ ,” he says, pulling off his sunglasses.

Natasha’s mouth thins. “I wasn’t sure, for a moment. But you look the same. Why?”

“It’s a long story.” James shows her his hands. “I’m not here to hurt you. My name is James Barnes. I don’t do that anymore.”

“I don’t believe you. Where’s Clint?” Her voice is ice-cold, and with a tiny shift in posture, this is no longer Natasha in front of him. This is the Black Widow. It’s a subtle distinction, but a terrifying one. It’s the Nat he knows, but it’s also not, and Clint’s promise that she won’t shoot James right here is suddenly looking less...promising.

“That’s a long story too,” James says.

“Tell her,” Clint says. “Quickly. Short version.”

James glances at him, probably picking up the note of panic in his voice, and gives Natasha an abbreviated version of what happened to Clint. Her expression remains the same the entire time, but Clint can practically taste the _you have got to be fucking kidding me_ that’s pouring off her in waves.

“So he’s right here,” James says, pointing to Clint. “And that’s...that’s about it.”

Natasha raises a single eyebrow. “Hell of a story,” is all she says.

“Yep.” James rubs his eyebrows, suddenly looking very tired.

“So he’s here?”

“Yes.”

“And I can’t see him because...”

“He’s on the astral plane.”

“But you can see him.”

“Because I’ve been studying with Dr. Strange.”

“The wizard.”

“I...” He looks helplessly at Clint, who kind of feels the same way. This is the weirdest goddamn story he’s ever told in his entire life, and he’s entirely too aware that it gets more unbelievable with every single sentence. He wouldn’t blame her if she turned and walked away right now.

But she can’t do that. They need her. So he thinks for a moment, then says, “The night I died, she poured herself a glass of whiskey, and ended up throwing it against a wall. JARVIS asked her if she wanted him to call someone, and she said she didn’t want to hear any more of Steve’s self-flagellating bullshit. She wanted to hear from me.”

James takes a deep breath, then relays this to Natasha. She blinks once, her version of a shocked face, and goes very, very still.

“I’m sorry,” Clint says, his eyes burning. “I’m so sorry, Nat. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. But it’s me. I’m still here.”

James tells her that too. Natasha keeps staring right at Clint, almost like she can see him, and it’s only because he’s staring right back that he can see the slight tremble to her mouth.

“I’m sorry as well,” James says. “We wouldn’t be doing this if there was a better way. But there’s some things about to happen, and we need the Avengers to help us.”

Natasha moves like she’s breaking free from a dream. “Okay,” she says, and Clint lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“She’s in,” he says to James.

James glances at him. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah.” She is. He knows it. He can’t put it into words, but he knows. Natasha isn’t one for rejecting evidence, even when it appears to be impossible. The Abidjan story, the things he told James to say on the phone...all of that could’ve been explained. It’s personal, and frightening, but explainable. But no one else witnessed her in the Tower that first night. Which means the only way for Clint to know it happened is if he was there. Which means that James is telling the truth.

He can see the realization of that in her eyes, and in the way her right hand carefully relaxes back open from a clenched fist. She might not believe all of it, but she’s at least mostly on board for now, and that’s all Clint can ask for.

Natasha watches their exchange. “He’s here?”

“Yeah,” James says, and points at him. “Sitting here.”

Natasha looks at the empty space that Clint is occupying, and blinks just a little longer than normal, hiding the glistening of her eyes. “Hi,” she says softly, and Clint nearly starts crying himself.

“Hey,” he says. “You look good. I like the hair.”

James translates for him. She smiles. It’s a pure Natasha smile, no hard edges to it, and he loves it so much.

“Thought you would,” is all she says. Then she shifts her attention to James. “You said something is about to happen?”

“Yes,” James says. “He found the Hydra base. The one you’ve been looking for.”

A slight shift in posture, and the Black Widow comes back. “Where is it?”

“The Navy yard. It’s underground, and pretty extensive.”

Natasha nods. “Tony was saying something about that, before.”

“Hydra is planning to steal something from Dr. Strange. We need the Avengers’ help to stop it.” James gestures towards Clint. “He’s got a lot of good information on their base and capabilities. If we work together, we can come up with a plan to stop them. Maybe even permanently.”

She nods again. “What do you need me to do?”

* * *

They make a plan with Natasha, then head back to the Sanctum. Clint doesn’t say anything as they walk, trying to get a stronger hold on his emotions.

“You okay?” James asks as they turn a corner.

“Yeah.” Clint rubs his chin. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“After.”

“Anything specific?”

He shrugs. “What happens if Strange can’t reverse this.” His voice catches a bit, and he swallows. “She knows, now. She knows I’m not dead. And I know we had to bring them in, but...”

James nods. “But what if you’re stuck like this,” he finishes.

“I mean, you can see me. And I’m guessing you can probably teach the rest of them, or at least get them to a point where they can see me too. But what am I supposed to _do_?”

“What do you mean?”

Clint stops and throws his arms out wide. “Look at me, James. I’m fucking useless. I can’t touch anything. I can’t talk to anybody without you. When all of this goes down, the only thing I’m gonna be able to do is watch.” He drops his arms and scrubs at his eyes, furious that they’re tearing up _again_. “I hate this. Being dead. Not dead. Whatever the fuck I am. It’s bullshit.”

“You’re not useless,” James says, sounding almost offended at the thought. “You’re the reason we even know any of this shit in the first place.”

“Yeah, because I got stuck in Hydra’s nightmare sleepover camp for two days.”

“And then you got out and you brought all that back to us. Jesus, Clint. The amount of stuff you memorized is insane. You’re not useless, you’re like a secret weapon.”

“But that doesn’t answer the question,” Clint says. “What happens after? Let’s say this all works out—which, let’s face it, is unlikely—then what’s next? What if Strange can’t do anything?” He paces a few steps away, flinching as a passerby walks through him. “Am I just supposed to be this for the rest of my life?” A little hysterical laugh escapes him. “Do we even know what counts as the rest of my life? What if I can’t die? What if I’m stuck like this forever?”

“Clint.” James grabs his arm and yanks him off the sidewalk into a little alley. “Strange is the smartest guy I know. You gotta give him a chance before you start freaking out, okay?”

His lips feel numb. “It’s not fucking fair, James.”

“I know.” James’s voice is tight, like he’s trying to hold back his own emotions. “I know, okay? I know what it’s like to feel like you’ve got no control over anything. Like the world’s moving without you and you’re just along for the ride. I _promise_ I know what that’s like.” He puts a hand on Clint’s face, tilts it up so Clint meets his eyes. “But you’re not alone for it. You got me, okay? And I swear that no matter what happens, I’m gonna stay with you. Gonna help you figure it out.”

“You don’t even know me,” Clint whispers, forcing the words out past the sudden constriction in his chest. “You can’t promise that. You don’t—we literally met a week ago; you have no clue what kind of person I am.”

“Yeah, I do,” James says easily. He leans forward and presses his mouth to Clint’s. It’s not like their other kisses—there’s no hint of something _more_ behind it. It’s just reassuring, and sweet, and it grounds Clint in the moment, pulling him back from the brink of hysteria.

“I spent seventy years with Hydra,” James whispers when he breaks it off, resting his forehead against Clint’s. “I know bad people when I see them. And I know good people when I see them.” James kisses him again, then wraps him in a hug. “So believe me when I tell you that you’re one of the good ones, okay? One of the best ones. You’re worth sticking around for.”

Clint feels like he should protest that, because objectively, he is not a good person at all. He’s done so much shit in his life, so many terrible things that he’ll have to answer for someday. But James sounds so sure of himself, so set in his words, that for the moment, Clint just lets himself go along with it.

“Okay,” he says shakily, resting his head on James’s shoulder. “Okay.”

“Besides,” James adds, a smile in his voice. “My dog likes you, and dogs are great judges of character.”

Clint chuckles at that. “Fair point.”

James lets him go. “We’ll figure it out,” he says. “But do me a favor and don’t write Strange off yet, alright? Even if he can’t do anything about it right now, he’ll keep working at it until he can. He’s smart as hell and he’s single-minded when it comes to unraveling the mysteries of the universe. He literally won’t sleep until he’s exhausted every single angle.”

Clint nods. “Yeah,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face. He’s tired all of the sudden, tired like he hasn’t been in months. “Okay. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” James tells him. “I know that wasn’t easy for you. You’ve got a good reason to be on edge.” His mouth quirks a little. “Besides, I’m probably going to be a mess when Steve comes around, so you can return the favor in a few hours.”

“I’ll be right next to you,” Clint promises.

“I know you will.” James smiles at him, a lopsided thing that unlocks a whole host of new feelings inside Clint—feelings that he’s not entirely sure he wants to explore right this second. So he just smiles back, reaches to take James’s hand, and they start walking back towards the Sanctum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot), and by [flowerparrish](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/flowerparrish). Thank you!


	8. chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint looks up to see a book in his face. He leans back a little bit, then reaches up a shaking hand. _Don’t get your hopes up,_ he thinks, fingers barely an inch away. _Don’t get your hopes up, it’ll just hurt more—_
> 
> He touches it.

They find Dr. Strange in the library, surrounded by multiple stacks of insanely thick books. Clint looks over his shoulder at the open pages. “What language is this?”

“Sanskrit,” he says.

James makes an irritated sound. “It’s annoying to read,” he tells Clint. “Takes me forever.”

“That’s because you don’t study enough,” Strange says mildly, leaning forward. “If you put some more effort into it, you would—”

“Don’t lecture me,” James says, rolling his eyes. Clint stifles a laugh.

Strange closes one of the books. “It’s true.”

“Did you find anything?”

“Possibly.” He picks up another one. “What’s happening on your end?”

“Natasha’s gonna get all the Avengers together,” Clint says, going still. “And then you can do the portal thing and bring them all here so we can talk. What do you mean, _possibly_?”

“Exactly what I said. When is this happening?”

James holds up a hand, cutting off Clint’s next words. “Tonight,” he says. “At ten.”

“Okay.” He waves a hand. “Leave, please.”

Clint starts to protest, but James interrupts him again, grabbing his hand and tugging him out of the room. “Not worth it,” he says. “Trust me. When he’s researching like that, you really don’t want to bother him. He gets testy. He threw an apple at me once.”

“I just want to know if he found something—”

“He’ll tell you when he’s ready.” James taps his watch. “Want to see the arm?”

Clint looks back over his shoulder. Strange catches his eye, and with a mildly irritated expression, raises a single hand. The library doors slam shut on their own.

“Rude,” Clint says, and turns back to James. “Sure. Let me see it.”

James shrugs off his jacket and tosses it on a nearby bench, then loosens the watch. He winces as it slides off. “Weird feeling,” he says at Clint’s concerned look. “In a way. Like taking off a really tight sleeve or something. I don’t know how to describe it.”

The arm ripples, like a water surface being disturbed. Then the color leaches away from it, fading peach tones replaced with a steely silver. Clint stares at, utterly enrapture. “Goddamn,” he says, reaching out to ghost his fingers along the metal. “That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

It really is. It’s an absolute marvel of engineering, even to Clint’s mostly untrained eyes. It’s the kind of thing Tony would absolutely drool over. The whole thing is made up of a series of interconnecting metal plates, each of them moving seamlessly with each other as James makes a fist and flexes. If Clint listens closely, he can hear a slight mechanical whirring that goes with it. “Can you feel with it?”

“Kind of,” James says. “I can tell you’re touching me, but I can’t feel anything else. Proprioception and vestibular are about the only senses it’s got. I know where it is and what it’s doing, but I can’t feel pain or anything with it.”

Clint keeps touching it, running his hand up to the shoulder. “What’s the star for?”

“Communism.”

“Wait, really?”

“I was made in Russia. The Soviet Union, back then. In the Red Room.”

Puzzle pieces click into place. “You were part of the Red Room?”

“They were working in tandem with Hydra, yeah. To create me.” He watches Clint’s fingers move over the star. “That’s how I know Natasha, I think. She’s a Black Widow, right?”

“Yeah.”

“They had me training them, for a while. I don’t remember much. It wasn’t for a long time.” Clint snickers quietly, and he raises an eyebrow. “Something funny?”

“Just trying to picture you as a self-defense instructor,” he says. “Teaching a classroom of little girls.”

“Those little girls could kick your ass without breaking a sweat.”

“Oh, I’m aware.” He grins. “I’ve been at the receiving end of said ass-kicking from Natasha many times. Still a funny image.” His hand rubs over the star. “So this is what, like a branding or something?”

“Pretty much.” James scowls at it. “Branding is a good way to put it. That’s about what they thought of me. I was just a weapon to them.”

His voice is steady, but his face is tight, echoes of pain visible in the creases of his forehead. Clint feels a swell of fury rise in him. “You’re more than that,” he says firmly. “You hear me?”

James closes his eyes for a second, then nods. “I know,” he says, looking a little bit more under control. “I’m a person, now.” He tugs the watch back on, and the metal vanishes underneath the skin tones.

“You were _always_ a person.” Clint is still furious, wondering what kind of fucked-up shit they were telling James over the years. “Just because they said otherwise doesn’t mean it was true.”

“It’s...” He shakes his head. “It’s hard to explain, Clint.”

“I’m just saying—”

“I know what you’re saying. And I appreciate it.” He covers Clint’s hand with his own and smiles. “I’ll tell you the rest, someday. But not right now, okay?”

“Waffles,” Clint agrees, and James rolls his eyes even as he starts laughing. “Fine. Well, we’ve got some time to kill until the others come, so what do you want to do?”

“I should go back to my place and let my dog out,” James says. “Maybe get something to eat. Work out what I want to say to Steve.” He shrugs, and there’s a sly look in his eye. “Could probably come up with some other things to do, too.”

Clint’s mouth goes dry at the heat in James’s gaze, and he finds himself nodding. “Okay. Yeah. We can...we’ll come up with something.”

“Come on,” James says, sounding amused. “Lucky’s probably crawling the walls by now.”

* * *

Lucky is indeed crawling the walls, and it takes James a solid five minutes to get him calmed down enough to clip a leash on him. He practically lunges at the door, and Clint cracks up at the sight.

“Not that funny,” James growls at him, trying to wrangle Lucky into submission so he can open it.

“It’s a little funny,” Clint counters. “You’re a big scary super soldier, and you’re letting a sixty-five pound golden retriever tell you who’s boss.”

“Am not,” James says, just as Lucky barks twice at him. “Hold on, you little shit, I have to actually _open_ the door, and I can’t do that if you’re sitting in the way.”

“You’re whipped,” Clint tells him. “He’s got your number.”

“Guess I have a thing for blonds,” James shoots back, and finally gets the door open. “Come on, boys. Let’s go outside.”

As soon as they get onto the sidewalk, Lucky beelines for another dog and starts sniffing at it. Clint watches, another thought coming to mind. “How come dogs can see me?” he asks, as James tugs Lucky away. “Right from the start, I noticed that.”

“Not sure,” James says thoughtfully. They start down the street. “The way Strange explained it to me was that the astral plane kind of operates on a different wavelength. It’s all around us, but you can only see it if you know what to look for and how to access the energy. It takes time, and training.” He shrugs. “Maybe dogs are just born with it. I don’t know. They’re pretty smart.”

“Sure,” Clint says, eying Lucky as he tries to eat flowers through a nearby fence. “Smart.”

“Some of them,” James sighs, and gently pulls the leash. “Come on, fluff monster.”

It’s not a long walk, but it’s enough for Lucky to get the wildness out of his system. He’s mellow by the time they get back to James’s apartment, and goes over to flop on the couch as soon as the leash comes off.

Clint takes a moment to look around. It’s a nice apartment. Small, but cozy. There’s a little kitchenette right by the door, and stairs leading up to a loft. There’s two full bookcases lining one wall, and a couch tucked between them opposite a television. Other than a picture on one of the bookshelves, there’s no personal touches to the place at all, but it still has an air of home about it.

“What do you think?” James asks as he drops his jacket on the counter. He flips the oven on as he walks past, then pulls open the freezer and starts digging around in it, emerging with a pizza.

“It’s nice,” Clint says. “I like it.” He does, really. It’s not the grandness of the Tower, but there’s a simplicity to it that he appreciates. He’s never felt very comfortable in the Tower with all the tech and toys. This is much more up his alley. He can see himself sitting on the couch with James and watching crappy TV, or making breakfast after spending the night, or hooking up some controllers and playing video games all day.

He _wants_ that, he realizes, and the strength of it is enough to take his breath away for a moment.

James shoves the pizza into the oven and turns to face him, drumming his fingers on the counter. “It’s not much, but it’s home. My own place.” He looks a little worried, then says, “Stay here a sec. I’m gonna go check on my neighbors.”

He shoves his shoes on and vanishes out the door. About five minutes later he returns, looking a little less disgruntled than before. “They’re okay,” he announces.

“What are you worried about?” Clint asks.

“Hydra. If they’re working with the bros, then they know I live here. I’m concerned about collateral damage.” He gestures at the door. “I told Simone she might want to get out of town for a bit. Her and the kids. They usually go up to their grandmother’s around this time anyway, so she said they’ll leave earlier. Deke and Aimee are out, I think. They didn’t answer.” He shakes his head. “I texted them to call me when they get a chance.”

“You can’t protect the whole building,” Clint says gently.

“I know. I’m just...” He waves a hand. “Trying to be proactive. Simone’s got kids, I at least want to make sure they’re clear.”

“Did you ever figure out why Ivan wants it, anyway?”

James shakes his head. “He’s bought up all the other buildings around here. We’re kind of like the last building standing. I think it’s some kind of real estate development thing. I don’t know for sure.” He smirks a little. “I’m guessing his guys being sent to Russia isn’t helping matters right now. Bought us some time, at least.”

“We’ll do something about it once Hydra’s taken care of,” Clint promises. “I can always get Natasha to come and intimidate him into submission.”

“I’d like to see that.” James sucks on his bottom lip, clearly deep in thought. “But you’re right, Hydra’s the bigger threat. We can work something out after.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, a little distracted by James’s mouth. “We, uh...we can take care of them later.”

James blinks, and then a sly grin slips over his face. “Later,” he agrees, and leans on the counter. “So...”

“So,” Clint echoes, and forces himself to focus. “So what?”

James walks towards him. Saunters, really, gait all slow and lazy like he’s got more time than he knows what to do with. He stops when he’s in front of Clint, knees close enough to touch.

“Uh,” Clint says, his mouth dry again. “Hi.”

“Hi,” James murmurs back, his voice low, eyes fixed on him.

Something warm uncoils in him, slow and languid, prickling up his spine in a way that makes him shiver a little. James reaches out and puts a hand on his face, gently tilting it back. “You’re so damn pretty,” he says, and Clint shivers again. “Could look at you all day.”

“Fine by me,” Clint manages, trying to remember how to form sentences. No one’s ever called him _pretty_ before, but fuck if he doesn’t like it.

James smirks. “Good.”

He straddles Clint, pressing him into the couch and pinning him down. Clint barely bites back a little whimper and lets him do it, lets himself go boneless under James’s weight. “Kiss me?” he asks, looking up, and James obliges, slotting their mouths together in a way that sends a flash of heat right through Clint. It’s possessive, and controlling, and hot as fuck, and—

A wet tongue suddenly swipes along James’s face, making him jump, and he breaks off the kiss with a splutter as Lucky nudges his way between them.

“Nice,” Clint says, laughing as James scrubs at his face. “Someone’s feeling left out, huh?”

“You are _not_ invited,” James says, pushing Lucky’s nose away with a fond expression. “Get out of here. Shoo.”

Lucky bites at his fingers, somehow managing to look proud of himself. James mutters something in Russian and leans over. “Stop interrupting,” he orders, cradling Lucky’s face between his hands. “Seriously.”

Lucky barks and licks his nose. James sighs.

“You’re so mean to him,” Clint says. “He just wants love too.”

“He’s an attention hog, that’s what he is.” James scratches Lucky’s ears, then pats his head. “Go on. Go lay down.”

With a sad whine, Lucky gets off the couch. He barks again, then slowly troops over to a pile of blankets under the stairs, looking back at them with a deeply offended expression. Clint laughs again. “Okay, he’s great. I love him.”

“I do too,” James admits. “He’s my best friend. He used to belong to the bros.”

“Really? How’d you get him?”

“I gave him some pizza, once. Then one of the bros and I got into it over something. Don’t remember what. They tried to shoot at me, and he bit the hell out of one of them. They threw him into traffic.”

“They _what_?”

“That’s why he’s missing an eye. I saved him, got him to a vet, then brought him back here. He’s been my buddy ever since.” Lucky barks again, and James laughs. “You’re still my favorite,” he assures Lucky, looking over his shoulder. “But I’m trying to get this guy naked, and you’re not helping at all.”

Clint’s pulse kicks into overdrive at that, thudding beneath James’s hand on his chest. “Uh...”

James looks back at him. “Only if you want to,” he says, suddenly looking a little hesitant. “Sorry if that was too—”

Clint puts his hand on James’s head, threading his fingers in his hair. “I want,” he assures James. “I definitely, definitely want.”

“Good,” James says, and lets Clint pull him back down. James sighs against him, running his tongue along Clint’s lower lip before licking into his mouth, taking control of the kiss and turning it into something more dominating. Clint lets out a little noise and goes boneless again. He likes this, he realizes. Likes being trapped underneath James, unable to do anything but hold on and take it.

“If I—” he starts, then loses his train of thought when James bites gently at his lower lip.

“What’s that, sweetheart?”

The noise that Clint makes in response to _that_ is one-hundred percent involuntary, and James grins at him. “Oh, you like that?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, swallowing hard. “Yeah—I...yeah.”

The grin gets wider. “Good. Gonna call you that all the time.”

“Okay.”

James presses a kiss to his neck. “Did you want to ask something?”

“If I take—” he shudders as James’s teeth scrape along his skin “—my clothes off—”

“You should do that,” James agrees, sucking a bruising kiss on the other side.

Clint smacks his shoulder. “Stop it, I’m trying to—” He cuts off with a quiet moan as James’s hands slide under his shirt, fingernails scraping over his ribs. “Goddamnit—”

James chuckles. “Am I interrupting you?”

“You’re a jerk,” Clint informs him, shuddering as James thumbs over his nipples. “A big, heavy—” He stops _again_ as James pinches one, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. “ _Fuck_.”

James laughs again. “You’re so sensitive,” he says teasingly. “I like it. All the pretty noises you make.” He leans down, pressing soft kisses along Clint’s jaw. “I wanna hear all of them. Every single one.”

“Uh-huh,” Clint agrees breathlessly, then slaps his hands over James’s, holding them still for a moment so he can ask his goddamn question. “If I take my clothes off—” he ducks a kiss “— _stop it_ , are they gonna disappear or something?”

That actually makes James pause, and he considers for a moment. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t think so? Haven’t you tried?”

“Wasn’t a reason to,” Clint says honestly. “Not like I can put on different ones, and I wasn’t exactly getting naked for anyone else.”

“Good,” James says. “Well, let’s find out, huh?” He reaches for Clint’s shirt. “Arms up, sweetheart.”

Clint raises his arms, and James tugs it over his head, then drops it on the couch next to them. It still has that shimmery, translucent quality to it, but it doesn’t disappear. “Cool,” Clint says, reaching out to touch it. He half expects his hand to sink through but he’s actually able to pick it up, which delights him to no end. “Ha! Look at that.”

“Fascinating,” James drawls, a lazy smirk on his face. “Big day for you.”

“Be nice,” Clint says, poking him in the chest. “Other than you, this is the only thing I’ve been able to actually touch for months that’s not furniture. This is awesome.”

“Should I leave you and the shirt alone, then?”

“You’re such an asshole,” Clint informs him, dropping the shirt and settling his hand on James’s waist instead.

“Mmm.” James thumbs over a nipple again, making Clint shiver under his touch. “I’d suggest you be a little more polite, sweetheart, considering I’ve got you at my mercy here.”

Clint shivers again. “That’s—that’s what you think, huh?” he says, aiming for a bravado that’s not really there.

James picks up on it, clearly, because he smiles like a shark, teeth glinting in the light. “That’s what I know,” he says, all confidence and command, and Clint inhales sharply at the tone. James smirks. “There we go.”

He leans down, but his lips have barely brushed Clint’s when a shrill beeping splits the air. They both wince, hands coming to cover their ears. James turns his head towards the source of it. “Smoke alarm,” he says over the noise, and gets up.

There is indeed smoke in the air, and Clint suddenly remembers the pizza. He can’t hold back his laughter as James fishes the burnt remains out of the oven and tosses it onto the counter with an irritated noise.

“Stop it,” he says to Clint, glaring as Clint keeps laughing. “It’s not that funny.”

“It’s hilarious, actually,” Clint says, sprawling on the couch a little bit. He watches with amusement as James turns the oven off, then stalks past him to open a window. “It’s all cute and domestic. I like it.”

“You’re a brat,” James tells him, poking Clint’s nose as he goes back to the kitchen. He drags a stool underneath the smoke detector and climbs on, reaching up to fiddle with the buttons. The stool groans precariously under his weight, but it doesn’t break.

The beeping ceases, and James looks very pleased with himself. “Alright,” he says, jumping off the stool in one fluid motion. He dramatically dusts off his hands and turns back to Clint. “So. Where were we?”

“Something about me being the boss,” Clint says, draping his arms over the back of the couch.

James raises an eyebrow. “I don’t recall the conversation going that way.”

“You should trust me,” Clint says. “I’ve got a good memory. That’s definitely what happened.”

“Uh-huh.” James comes back over. “Tell you what. Why don’t we take this upstairs, and put that theory to the test?” He tilts his head towards the loft.

“I’m kinda comfortable here,” Clint says, kicking a leg out and offering James a cocky smile. “Nice soft couch, you know.”

“Not big enough,” James says dismissively.

Clint raises an eyebrow. “For what?”

“For all the filthy things I wanna do to you,” James says, reaching out to slide his fingers into Clint’s hair. He tugs gently. “Or are you no longer interested?”

Clint makes a strangled noise. “ _So_ interested,” he says, following the pressure of James’s hand and getting to his feet. “In all of them. All of the things. Please do all of the things.”

James lets go of his hair and puts his hands on Clint’s waist instead, stepping backwards as he pulls Clint with him. “Planning on it,” he says, voice low and heated. He turns Clint, backs him into the wall by the stairs, then presses another kiss to his mouth. “We’ve got hours—”

Another shrill noise echoes through the apartment, making both of them pause. James looks confused for a second, then sighs. “Phone,” he says, and turns away.

Clint thuds his head against the wall. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” James goes over the kitchen and picks up the phone. Clint watches with some bemusement— _who the hell still has a landline?_ —as he puts the receiver to his ear. “Strange?” He listens for a moment, then nods. “Okay. We’ll be right there.” He hangs up and looks at Clint. “Filthy things are gonna have to wait, I’m afraid. They want us back.”

Clint groans. “The universe hates us,” he says, reaching down to adjust his pants, distantly pleased that his sex drive apparently made it into ghosthood with him. Although he’s somewhat less pleased that he can’t do anything about it right now. “Either that, or we fell into a romantic comedy by mistake.” 

James chuckles. “Both are possible,” he says. “But that was Strange. He thinks he’s got an idea on what to do with you.”

Clint perks up. “Really?”

“Yeah. He said it’s not a reversal, but it’ll help.” He points at the couch. “Get dressed.”

“Fuck yeah,” Clint says, and scrambles for his shirt. “We can do filthy things later.”

“We’re _definitely_ doing filthy things later,” James says firmly, his mouth twitching in a smile. “Come on. Let’s go see what he’s come up with.”

* * *

“I can’t bring you back completely,” Strange says, almost as soon as they walk in the door.

Clint nods. “Hello to you too,” he says, and James snickers. “Why not?”

“Like I said, I need the gun you described, or the designs of it. I think they used a specific spell, but I want to double check it first. It’s not advisable to go messing with magic without fully understanding the ramifications.”

From behind them, Wong mutters something that sounds a lot like _you’re one to talk._ Strange glares at him, then looks back at Clint. “However, what I can do for the moment is make you more...solid, let’s say. I found a spell that should allow you to interact with the material world on a more consistent basis.”

“That would be _great_ ,” Clint says. “Would be even better if I understood what you meant.”

“You’ll be able to pick up shirts that aren’t yours,” James says, and Clint bites back a laugh.

“Stand here,” Strange says, pointing at the floor. Clint stands where he’s directed, in the center of a surprisingly intricate mandala, and tries not to feel like he’s about to be part of a gruesome sacrifice. Strange examines the setup for a moment, then nods. “Okay. Barnes, if you’ll just stand back. Wong, are you ready?”

Clint looks between them. “Is this gonna hurt?”

“Probably,” Strange says, sounding unconcerned.

“Uh—”

“Ready,” Wong says, looking grim, and Strange starts chanting before Clint can get another word in.

He doesn’t understand the language. It’s old, certainly, and the words sound...odd. Almost _wrong_. They’re harsh and guttural, building in intensity until Clint has to cover his ears, wincing as he does so. A full-body shudder wracks him and he drops to his knees, curling over until his forehead presses into the floor.

Strange doesn’t stop. The words keep coming, pressing into him like a weight, getting heavier, curling in his gut with a swell of nausea, prickling under his skin like a thousand fire ants crawling all over him—

Hands. Calloused and rough, they slide up his arms and pull his hands away from his ears. “Hey,” James murmurs, his voice concerned. “Hey. Clint. Look at me.”

Clint raises his head. He feels like a less-awful version of that first day, when this whole nightmare began. This isn’t as intense—maybe a three day bender, followed by being hit by a car—but it’s enough to make him wince as he straightens up. “That...sucked,” he says roughly, leaning into James’s embrace. 

“I’m sorry,” James says. “I know. I’m sorry.” He presses a kiss to Clint’s temple, then shifts slightly to look up at Strange. “Did it work?”

“Let’s see.” Strange nudges Clint with his foot. “Take this.”

Clint looks up to see a book in his face. He leans back a little bit, then reaches up a shaking hand. _Don’t get your hopes up,_ he thinks, fingers barely an inch away. _Don’t get your hopes up, it’ll just hurt more—_

He touches it.

There’s no fizzing in his hand, no sensation of passing through. His trembling fingers make contact with the cover. It’s wooden, and old, ancient underneath his skin. Clint swallows hard and slides his hand around it, gripping the spine carefully. Holding it in his hand. Feeling the weight of it.

“Excellent,” Strange says, looking overly smug. “I told you it wouldn’t kill him, Wong.”

Clint’s head snaps up at that. “ _Excuse_ me?”

“Oh, you’re fine,” Strange tells him, waving a hand. “Now. You said you saw the designs, correct? Of the gun they used?” When Clint doesn’t answer right away, he snaps his fingers. “Time is of the essence here, Barton.”

“Yes,” Clint finally says, still focused on the book. “I saw them. I can draw them for you.”

And he can, now. He can _hold_ things. There is something solid in his hand, something that’s not a couch or a wall or his fucking shirt.

Relief burns through him, almost painful in its intensity, and he looks at James. “I’m _here_ ,” he says, swallowing back tears. “I’m...I’m still here.”

It’s a stupid thing to say, really. He’s been _here_ the whole time, just on a different wavelength. But it’s one thing to know that, and another entirely to spend half a year like he did, invisible and unnoticed. Finding James helped, but this...this makes him feel almost human again.

James gets it, or at least part of it, because he nods once and presses another kiss to Clint’s temple. “You’re still here,” he agrees.

“Mostly,” Strange adds. “Not entirely. But more than you were before. About those drawings...”

“Jesus,” James says, glaring up at him. “Guy’s been a ghost for six months, Strange. Can you give him a moment?”

“He wasn’t a ghost, he—”

Wong tosses another book at him. “This is not the time for semantics,” he says, and Clint barely knows the guy, but he wants to give him a hug anyway.

James turns his attention back to Clint. “Hey,” he says softly. “You okay?”

“I’m okay,” Clint says, his voice weak. “I just—I didn’t realize—” He looks at James. “I think I know what you meant, now. About being a person.”

James nods, something softening in his eyes. “Right,” is all he says, rubbing a soothing hand over Clint’s arm.

Clint pulls himself together after a few minutes. Then James takes him up to the library, where he spends the better part of an hour attempting to draw the designs he saw. “Here,” he says, pushing them across the table. “That’s the best I can do.”

“You’re sure this is correct?” Strange asks, materializing by his shoulder. Clint nearly jumps out of his skin, but so does James, so he feels a little bit better about it.

“I got a pretty good look at them,” Clint says. “But I don’t have a photographic memory or anything.”

“Hmm.” Strange flips through the papers. “Better than nothing. I’ll see what Stark has tonight.” He wanders off towards the stairs.

Clint rubs his eyes and slumps back in the chair. “Tired,” he says to James. It’s a novel feeling, given that he hasn’t really been _tired_ in six months. He sleeps on occasion, but it’s more to waste time than anything.

“I’ve got a cot here,” James says. “You can sleep if you want.”

“Might be nice,” Clint admits. “I kinda feel like shit.”

“Side effects of magic,” James says. “Been there, done that. You just need to rest. Come on.” He leads Clint back down the stairs and off to a little side room. “Welcome to my office.”

It’s really more of a closet, honestly, but it’s decently sized. There’s a wall of monitors with security camera feeds, and a desk, and a mini fridge. There’s also a cot in the corner, which James directs him to. “It’s not the most comfortable,” he says, “But it works in a pinch.”

Clint gratefully collapses on it, rolling onto his side. He doesn’t need it, but he pulls the folded-up blanket over his legs anyway, thrilling in actually being able to _touch_ it. “Works just fine,” he assures James. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” James says. “I can go, let you get some sleep. I’ll wake you up before the Avengers get here.”

Clint reaches out and grabs his wrist. “Stay,” he says, sleep already pulling at him.

“Bed’s not big enough for two,” James says with a slight smile, but he doesn’t leave. He reaches out and drags his office chair over, then grabs a book from the desk. “Here. You sleep, I’ll study. How about that?”

“Sounds great.” Clint settles into the cot, fighting off exhaustion for a moment as he watches James kick his feet up, resting his heels on the edge of the cot. He rests the book on his lap, then turns a page with one hand. With his other, he reaches out and gently cards his fingers through Clint’s hair.

It should be arousing, really, especially considering what they were doing the last time James touched him there. But it’s just soothing instead, intimate in a way that makes Clint want to melt into the bed. He lets his eyes slide shut and drifts off, falling asleep to the rustling of pages and the feeling of soft fingers rubbing circles along his scalp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot), and by [flowerparrish](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/flowerparrish). Thank you!


	9. chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She turns back to Clint. “We’ll be ready with backup,” she promises. “If you’re even a minute late, we’ll storm the place. Just because you’re invisible doesn’t mean you’re alone.” She’s looking directly at him, eyes steady. “We’re here, now. We know.”

He wakes up sometime later, feeling marginally better. James’s hand is still on his head, still moving in little circles. Clint keeps his eyes shut and his breathing even, trying to hold onto the moment for as long as he can. Christ, he never knew how good it felt to be _touched_. Even just something as simple as this. It makes him feel all warm and fuzzy.

“You’re terrible at that,” James says, sounding amused.

Clint cracks an eye open and looks at him. “At what?” His voice is rough.

“Pretending to be asleep.” The hand stills, and despite himself, Clint makes a little noise of protest. James smiles. “You want me to keep going?”

“Please,” Clint says, shifting a little bit to push into his hand. “Feels nice.”

“Mmm.” He starts up again. “You can always ask, you know. I like this too.”

Clint nods. “Not good at it,” he admits. “Asking for things.”

“I can tell.” James rubs a spot right behind his ear, and Clint lets out a high-pitched whine that immediately makes him want to die with embarrassment. James just smiles and does it again. “We’ll work on that later, I think.”

Clint is interrupted from asking what that’s supposed to mean by a buzzing sound. James reaches out with his free hand and picks up his phone. “Avengers,” he says, glancing at it. “They’re ready.”

“Is it ten already?”

“Close. You slept for about five hours.”

“Wait, really?” Clint moves enough to free an arm and glance at his watch. “Cool. I haven’t done that in...” He thinks back. “Months, really. Haven’t needed to.”

“You feel better?”

“Eh.” He rubs his eyes. “Less awful than before.” Reluctantly, he forces himself to sit up. “Okay. They’re ready?”

“Yeah.” James closes the book and gets up, tossing it onto the desk.

Clint eyes it. “Did you read the whole time?”

“Working on my Sanskrit. Strange says he won’t translate pages for me anymore, and that if I want to keep learning magic I have to learn how to read it.” He sighs. “It’s really not _that_ complex; I’ve just been lazy about it.”

“You know, Strange is kind of an asshole.”

James laughs. “He’s totally an asshole. But he’s a good man underneath, I promise.” He stretches, arching his back in a way that makes Clint’s brain go blank for a moment. “Alright. Let’s go see your friends, yeah?”

Clint gets up. “Any idea on the Steve problem?”

He shrugs. “Just gonna let it play out, I think. If I try and give him excuses right off the bat, it’s just gonna make things worse.” He bites at his lip. “I don’t know.”

“He’s a good guy,” Clint says. “Once the shock wears off, he’ll still want to be your friend, I promise.”

“Yeah.” James chews his lip a little more, then shakes his head. “Whatever. It’s time to stop hiding from it.” He smiles at Clint. “Ready?”

Clint nods. “Will they be able to see me?” he asks, following James out of his office. “You know, since apparently I can ‘interact with the material world on a more consistent basis’ now.” He does his best Strange impression, and James chuckles.

“It’s possible,” he says. “You look more solid? But then again I didn’t notice the shimmer you had before, so...” He waves a hand. “Granted, I was distracted by other things.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Stop fishing for compliments, Clint.” James opens the library door. “Hey, Dr. Strange. Wong.”

Strange waves absently, still engrossed in books. Wong actually gets up and comes over. “You look better,” he says, eyeing Clint.

“I feel better,” Clint says. “A little bit, anyway.”

“I’m glad to hear it. That was an old spell we used. There was a potential for… side effects.”

Clint blinks. “Uh, I feel like that should’ve been brought up?” Not that he would’ve refused, but still. He looks down at himself, tracing fingers over his skin. “What side effects are we talking about, here?”

Wong waves a hand. “You would have noticed by now,” is all he says, and turns to James. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” James says. He swallows nervously, and Clint reaches for his hand.

“I’m here,” he murmurs, stepping in front of James. “It’s okay. You can do this.”

James takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says. “Bring them here.”

Wong raises his hand, and does the spinny-thing with the sparks. Clint watches as a portal opens, revealing Avengers Tower, and all five of his teammates. He can’t help the rush of relief that spreads through him at the sight. They’re all there, and they’re all okay. Not that Clint expected otherwise, but it’s a relief to see them anyway.

Thor steps through the portal first, looking for all the world like this is a regular Tuesday for him. He’s followed by Natasha, then Bruce, and then Tony, who examines the portal like he wants to dismantle it to see what makes it tick.

Steve is the last to step through. He’s in his mission gear—they all are—and his shield is strapped to his arm. “You must be—” he starts, but then he sees James, and the words stop right there.

It’s almost comical, in a way. Steve’s eyes get cartoonishly wide, and his mouth drops open. He gapes at James, who shifts his weight slightly and says, “Hey, Steve.”

“ _Bucky?_ ”

The word is small, and shocked. Steve looks _lost_ , and he blinks rapidly a few times, as if he’s trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. His mouth works like he wants to say something, but nothing else comes out.

Clint suddenly doesn’t find the situation so funny anymore.

James winces a bit at the name, but nods. “Yeah. It’s… it’s me.”

“Who the hell is Bucky?” Bruce asks, shattering the tension like a hammer on glass.

“Hang on,” Tony says, looking between them. “Bucky _Barnes_? Like, your old war buddy Barnes? I thought he died.”

“Hydra,” Natasha says like it explains everything.

Steve is still staring at James. Tony glances at him, then snaps his fingers in front of Steve’s face. “Hey. Capsicle. Wake up, buddy. We got shit to do.”

Steve blinks, annoyance crossing his face. He shoves Tony’s hand aside, then takes a couple steps forward. “Bucky,” he says again. “I...”

“Clint?”

Clint tears his eyes away from Steve to see Thor staring at him, eyes squinting like he’s trying to make something out.

“Clint?” Tony says, spinning in a circle. “Where?”

“Here,” Clint says, waving an arm. “Thor, buddy, can you see me?”

“I can.” Thor grins in delight. “Faintly, but you are there. It’s good to see you, my friend.” 

“I can’t see him,” Tony complains. “Where is he?”

“Right there.” Thor points. “Next to this… Bucky.”

“My name is James,” James says, finally looking away from Steve. “I don’t go by Bucky anymore.” He nods at Natasha. “ _Pauchok_.”

“You can call me Natalia,” she says, a slight smile on her face. It drops as soon as Tony opens his mouth, and she pivots slightly to narrow her eyes at him.

“Never mind,” he says, raising his hands.

“That’s what I thought.”

Bruce is squinting where Thor was pointing. “I don’t see anything.”

“He is there,” Thor assures him.

“Not that this isn’t entertaining,” says another voice. They all turn to look at Dr. Strange as the portal vanishes. He’s wearing his cape now, fully dressed in his wizard gear, looking all kinds of self-important. “But we all have important business to get to.”

Tony looks like he’s dying to say _something_ , but a sharp look from Steve holds him in check. “You must be Dr. Strange,” he says, glancing over at James again. “I’m Steve Rogers, and these—” 

“I’m aware of who you are,” Strange says, and waves his hand. The room does that lurching thing again, and even when Clint’s half-expecting it, it still sucks. They’re in a conference room now, complete with a large table and comfortable chairs. Strange sits himself at the head, smirking slightly as the rest of them freak out over the change of venue. “Sit,” he says, gesturing to the chairs. “We have a lot to discuss.”

They all take various chairs, most of them still a little off balance. Clint sits next to James, glancing over to where Steve is still looking at him. “You okay?” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” James says. His face is white, but his voice is steady. “I’ll talk to him after.”

“Sounds—” Clint stops sharply as Tony pulls his chair out. “Watch it!”

James leans over and grabs it, holding it in place. “Clint’s sitting there.”

Tony stares at Clint, then shakes his head. “I can’t see him.”

“Well, he’s there,” James says a little more firmly. “So get a different chair.”

Tony stares a little more, then reaches out. “Shouldn’t there be a cold spot or something?”

“Fuck off,” Clint says, swiping at him.

Tony lets out a hilarious yelp and pulls his hand back. “Whoa! Was that…” He stares at his hand for a moment, flipping it over. “That’s so weird. I _felt_ that.” He looks right through Clint, eyes narrowed, like Clint is some particularly interesting engineering problem he wants to solve. “But I can’t see you. Can’t hear you either. Why is that?” 

“Wish I couldn’t hear _you_ ,” Clint mutters, and James laughs.

Tony looks at him. “What? Did he say something?”

Steve sighs. “Sit down, Stark,” he orders, but he’s looking at Clint too, his face a mix between intrigued and skeptical. “Is...is he really there?”

“I’m really here,” Clint says, and spins around, amused at how much it seems to unnerve Steve to watch a seemingly empty chair spin.

“He’s really there,” James confirms, and Steve tears his eyes away from Clint to glance at James again, the wariness in his eyes traded for that storm of emotions in a single heartbeat. 

“Okay,” he says after a moment. “Tony, settle down somewhere. Not...not on Clint. Please.” When Tony finally settles into a different seat, he turns back to Strange. “Thank you for calling us. We appreciate being brought in.”

“We had to,” James says. “This is too big for us to do alone.”

Steve closes his eyes. He still looks like there are a thousand things he wants to say, a thousand words tumbling around inside him, all fighting to get to the surface. His right hand is clenched in a fist, like he’s using it to keep himself under control.

Natasha puts a hand on his arm and murmurs something in his ear, too quiet for the rest of them to hear. He nods once, sharp and short, and his fist relaxes. “Well then,” he says, taking a deep breath and opening his eyes, “Why don’t you bring us up to speed?”

* * *

It doesn’t take long. James gives them a quick run-down on what happened to Clint, and the Hydra base, and everything that Clint found there. There’s a stunned silence when he finishes. Clint looks around the room. Bruce and Thor are both deep in thought, and even Tony doesn’t have a snarky remark to make. Steve is still staring at James, and Clint wonders just how much of that he actually processed.

Natasha is looking at Clint. Or at his chair, really. He smiles at her, then realizes she can’t see it and slumps back. James reaches over and squeezes his hand. “I know,” he says quietly. “Anything you want me to say?”

“No,” Clint sighs. Not because there isn’t anything he wants to say—there’s _so_ much—but he’d rather wait until he has a body and can say it in person. “Just...no. It’s fine.”

Natasha tilts her head slightly, and James looks at her. “He’s thinking about you,” he says, and she smiles.

“Okay,” Steve finally says, looking around the room. “So. We know Hydra is going to try and come after the Infinity Stone, and will also try to grab Bucky in the process. They don’t know that we know this, and they also don’t know we know where their base is. That about sum it up?”

“Pretty much,” Tony says. He flashes a video up onto the wall. It’s the warehouse recording, the one with the guy going into the elevator. “So, their HQ is down by the Brooklyn Navy Yard, then. I was right.” He sounds unbearably smug about this.

Bruce rolls his eyes. “Yes, Tony. You were right.”

“Told you all,” he says. “Anyway. So to get in, we’re either going to need to steal ourselves a Hydra agent, or we’re going to need some high-tech hacking stuff.” He frowns, then says, “I guess we won’t be asking SHIELD for assistance.”

“We _can’t_ bring in SHIELD on this,” Steve says grimly. “Anything we do is here, between the people in this room.”

“We can bring in Nick Fury,” Natasha says. “He’s not Hydra.”

“He’s not,” Clint adds. “I don’t think so, anyway. When I was down there, they talked about him like he was a nuisance more than anything else. They were planning on getting rid of him at some point.”

James relays this to the rest of them. Steve still looks unsure, but Natasha’s mouth is set. “He’s not Hydra,” she says. “I swear on everything I believe in.”

“That’s a short list,” Tony says, and she narrows her eyes at him. “What? It’s true.”

“Clint was actually down there and listening to them,” James says. “We should trust his word.”

Clint shrugs. “I can’t be one-hundred percent sure,” he says. “But from the way they talked about him...I think he’s a huge problem for them.” He rubs a hand through his hair, then somewhat reluctantly says, “I actually think it might be Pierce.”

James blinks. “Alexander Pierce?”

The rest of the room turns to look at him. “Alexander Pierce,” Steve repeats. “Secretary Pierce? Turned-down-a-Nobel-Peace-Prize Pierce?”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” Clint says. “Sitwell’s not smart enough or—”

“Pierce makes sense,” Natasha says. “I’ve been wondering—”

James holds up a hand. “Hang on, Clint’s talking.” He nudges Clint. “Go ahead.”

“I was just saying that he’s not smart enough to do this shit on his own. He’s got to be answering to someone. It’s sure as hell not Fury. They were talking about someone powerful in Washington. Pierce has all the right connections. He knows Fury. He knows SHIELD.”

“Good point,” James says thoughtfully, before relaying that to the rest of them. He rubs his forehead, like he’s trying to iron out the little furrow in it. “That...you might be onto something.”

“Do you remember something?” Clint asks.

Steve looks concerned. “Bucky. You okay?”

“Memories,” James says. “I have a lot of them back, but some things are still really fuzzy.” He frowns. “I think I know him, though. I think he was there sometimes.”

“There?”

“When they would wipe my memories.” James gestures to his head. “The Chair.”

Everyone around the table looks a different shade of horrified, except Natasha, who just looks furious. She spits out something in Russian that Clint doesn’t quite catch. James looks startled for a moment, then answers her in something just as quick.

“Clue the rest of the class in,” Tony says, looking between them.

“Just saying unkind things,” James tells him.

“We can’t spend time on this,” Steve says. “Speculating who is or isn’t Hydra. We’ll drive ourselves crazy. Natasha, if you really trust Fury that much, we can bring him in. But otherwise, I think it should be kept between the people here.”

Everyone nods in agreement.

“Good.” Steve turns to Strange. “So, Hydra is working with a...wizard?”

“Master of the Mystic Arts,” Strange says, sounding exasperated. “But sure. _Wizard_.”

“How sure are you of this?”

“Not completely,” Strange admits. “But based on what we’ve been hearing, and considering that your friend is partially on the astral plane...” He shrugs. “We’re fairly certain. Call it ninety-five percent.”

“Okay,” Steve says. “How much does that change the game for us?”

“Depends on who it is. We still don’t know. We’re working on it.”

Steve nods. “Please do.”

“I think we should plan an ambush,” Natasha says, leaning forward. “We have the upper hand right now. We know about their base and their plan.” She looks at Strange. “You said they don’t know the Time Stone is here, right?”

“Right. Or rather, they don’t know I have it.”

“So let’s leak that,” Natasha says. “Control the flow of information. They know James is in the area, we know they’re looking to take him back. What if we set up an ambush where they could potentially score both the Winter Soldier and the Time Stone in one raid?”

James looks a little pale at the thought. Clint puts a hand on his arm. “Are you sure Hydra would go for that?” he asks. “They’re evil Nazi bastards, but they’re not stupid. If something like that passed your desk, you can’t tell me you wouldn’t be at least a little bit suspicious.”

James relays this for him. Steve nods. “That’s true,” he says. “I would be.” He thinks for a moment, then says, “We should raid the base.”

“If we raid the base, we’ll just scare them off,” Bruce points out. “Remember how all this got started? They’ll scatter like rats, and we’ll be left with nothing.”

“That’s a big headquarters,” Tony says. “They won’t be able to just clear up everything.”

“Don’t underestimate Hydra,” James warns him. “They’re cruel, but they’re smart. They’ll figure out a way. They’ll set things on fire before they let you get close.” He looks at Steve. “Remember the base you came to rescue the 107th from? Schmidt blew it all up. Millions of dollars and months of research. They’ll do whatever it takes to keep going.”

“And we can’t risk that,” Strange says. “If you want your friend back, I need to know what they shot him with. I need to see the spell that was inscribed on it.”

Tony raises a hand. “I’ve got video from my helmet cam,” he says. “Of when they shot him. I can show you.”

“Not good enough. I need the designs. Barton was able to draw some, but I need more than that. I have my suspicions on how the spell went wrong, but I need to be sure.”

Clint rubs his forehead. “I still think Natasha’s plan is best,” he says. “We know Sitwell is one of them. If we can figure out a way to pass on some information to him, spook him into moving when _we_ want him to, we might have a shot. Then we can do it in teams. Team A takes out the team coming here, and Team B hits the base at the same time. Maximum confusion and all that. Their forces are split, and we have a better chance both ways.”

“That...could work,” James says. He tells the others, and there’s general noise of agreement.

Tony leans forward. “So the question is, how do we get Sitwell to move on our schedule?”

Steve drums his fingers on the table. “That’s a good question. There’s no way for any of us to drop the information to him without him being suspicious of us.”

“What if we had someone on the inside?”

“Like who?”

Tony shrugs. “Clint was there, apparently.” He looks at Clint. “How about it, Casper? Did you see anyone we know?”

“I didn’t,” Clint says. “But there were people coming in and out all the time, and there were a few times that I got stuck in a couple different rooms, so it’s possible I might have missed people. But the only one I saw for sure is Sitwell.” He shrugs. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” James says. “You brought back plenty of other information.” He turns to the others. “He says no, he didn’t recognize anyone.”

“Yeah,” Tony says, “other information’s nice and all, but someone on the inside would be helpful.” He looks at Clint again, then says, “What if we send him back in?”

Clint snaps his head up. “What if we what now?”

Natasha narrows her eyes at Tony. “What would that accomplish?”

“He could give us names,” Tony says. “If there is someone we know. Or people to look for. Descriptions. Help us pick someone out that we could grab. We get one of them, threaten them a little, they take information back to Sitwell, and boom.” He claps his hands. “We’re golden.”

They’re all quiet for a beat, and then Steve says, “That might work.” He looks over towards Clint. “If you’re willing to go back in.”

James turns to Clint. “Well?” he asks quietly.

“I don’t know,” Clint says. “I...”

It’s not that he doesn’t want to help. He does. But the thought of going back down into that office, risking being stuck there _again_...he doesn’t like it.

“I don’t know,” he says again. “I guess I could. If there’s no other option.”

“No one’s making you,” James says quickly. “We won’t—if you’re not comfortable with it—”

Tony snorts. “You’re invisible, Bird Boy. What do you have to be worried about?”

“Please punch him for me,” Clint says, rubbing his eyebrows. “I don’t—I can go, I just _really_ don’t want to get stuck in Hydra’s nightmare sleepover camp again.”

James shakes his head. “Won’t let that happen,” he says. “I promise. We’ll set up a cutoff time. Like if you’re not out in twenty-four hours, we’ll send someone in, you know? And you can touch things now, remember? You don’t have to wait for someone to leave, you can get out on your own.”

“What if someone sees me?” Clint rubs a hand through his hair. It’s a stupid question, he knows, but his anxiety is through the roof right now, and he can’t stop himself from asking.

“You’re invisible,” James says patiently.

“Not to you. And not to Strange, or Wong. What if someone else down there can do what you guys do?”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Strange says absently. “Most people are too blinded by the material world to access the astral plane. That’s why your friends can’t see you. It takes time, and practice.”

“I resent that,” Tony says. “I’m not blinded by the material world.”

Steve mutters something that sounds a lot like _how many cars does one guy need?_ and turns to James. “What’s he worried about?”

“Last time he went down there, he got trapped for a few days. He doesn’t want that to happen again.”

“It won’t,” Steve says immediately. “We won’t let it happen.”

Clint sighs. “See it sounds nice when you all say it, but—”

James puts a hand on his arm. “Clint,” he says voice low. “You need to trust me on this one. I’m not gonna let a damn thing happen to you.”

“I do trust you,” Clint whispers. “I’m just...”

He doesn’t know, honestly. He just has a sick feeling in his gut about this, and every instinct is screaming at him not to go back in there. It’s not even something he can really voice. Normally, if he feels like this on a mission, he does something about it. Investigates more, or changes the plan, or does _something_. But that’s not an option this time, and it’s putting him on edge.

“I’m just worried,” he finally says. 

“I know, sweetheart.” He pulls Clint towards him, dropping a soft kiss on his forehead. “I know. You’ll be okay. I promise.”

Clint nods, then catches a glimpse of everyone else, and the way they’re all side-eyeing James with varying expressions of confusion. 

Tony is the first to say it. “Are you two...together?”

“Yes,” James says, like it’s absurd for them to be anything else. Clint can’t stop the giant, probably goofy smile that blooms over his face. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“Not at all,” Tony says, glancing at Steve. “I’m just... curious about the mechanics of it.”

James narrows his eyes. “Excuse me?”

“You know, in the bedroom—”

“ _Tony_ ,” Natasha says sharply. “You really think that’s your business?”

“What? I’m just curious. This is my first experience with ghosts. I’ve got questions.”

“He’s not a ghost,” Strange says, sounding like he’d very much like to hit someone. “He’s on the astral plane. He’s an energy form right now.”

“Okay, fine. This is my first experience with energy forms, then. I just want to know—”

“Knock it off, Stark,” Natasha says, flashing him a _you-should-stop-before-I-kill-you_ smile. He looks slightly alarmed and stops talking. 

She turns back to Clint. “We’ll be ready with backup,” she promises. “If you’re even a minute late, we’ll storm the place. Just because you’re invisible doesn’t mean you’re alone.” She’s looking directly at him, eyes steady. “We’re here, now. We know.”

And he knows her well enough to read between the lines of that, hear the unspoken promise behind her words. She’ll never say it out loud, not in front of so many people but he hears it all the same, and he loves her even more fiercely for it.

“Alright,” Steve says. “Why don’t we take a break for a minute. Stretch, walk around, see if anyone gets any other bright ideas.”

He’s directing it at the group, but he’s looking at James when he’s saying it, and the entire room gets the memo. Tony mutters something to Bruce, nodding towards Strange, and they get up. Thor touches Natasha’s arm, and leans over to say something to her.

Steve catches James’s eye, then tilts his head towards the hallway. James nods and starts to get up.

“Need moral support?” Clint asks, getting up with him.

“Yeah,” James says, looking a little pale. “Um. If you don’t mind.”

“I’m here,” Clint assures him. “I got your back.”

He follows James out into the hallway, where Steve is leaning against the wall, fingers tapping nervously on his leg. He looks up as James closes the door. “Hi,” he says, voice wavering.

“Hi,” James says, sounding just as emotional. “Uh...” He rubs his chin with one hand, then says, “Steve—”

“You’re alive,” Steve says. “You...you’re alive.”

James lets out a long breath. “Yeah. I’m alive.”

“How?”

“Well...” James’s face goes distant. “You remember when you came to rescue the 107th? How Dr. Zola was experimenting on me?”

“Yes.”

“He was trying to make me like you. Trying to make the serum work.”

“But it didn’t,” Steve says. “We tested—”

“It’s not exactly the same, no. But I’m like...a discount version of you.” He reaches for his wrist and pulls the watch off, holding out his metal arm. Steve’s eyes go wide at the sight. “When I fell from the train, I lost my arm. Some Russian soldiers found me, and they turned me over to Hydra. They...” He stops. “Well. You know how Hydra is.”

“I do.”

“So they turned me into the Winter Soldier. Gave me a metal arm and made me kill for them. I got away, after a… a long time. Now I’m here. Have been for a few years.”

“In New York?

“Yeah.”

Steve looks upset. “And you just...weren’t going to say anything? Ever?”

“I was,” James says. “I meant to, once. And then I just...didn’t.”

Steve nods again. His eyes are bright with tears, and for some reason, Clint finds it hard to look at. Steve’s never been his favorite guy or anything, but this can’t be easy for him. Two dead friends coming back to life in one day is a lot for anybody, let alone someone like Steve, whose guilt complex about said deaths can practically be seen from space. “Can I ask why not?”

James winces. “I, uh...” He looks at Clint, then says, “I didn’t want to get you hurt. I knew there was a risk Hydra would still be after me, and I didn’t want to put you in danger. And you just looked so...happy.”

“Happy,” Steve repeats, voice flat. “You didn’t tell me you were alive—you, my _best_ friend—because I looked too happy?”

“And Hydra,” Clint adds. “There was a Hydra problem.”

James shakes his head. “Steve, I’m sorry. Maybe I should have...I don’t know.” He shuffles his weight awkwardly from foot to foot, then says, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say.” He scratches his chin. “I’m not Bucky, anymore. I’m not—that guy you knew? He’s gone. He died in a Hydra facility over sixty years ago, and the Winter Soldier took his place for a long, _long_ time. And now I’m not the Soldier anymore, but I can’t go back to being that other guy, either. I just can’t. I’ve got seventy years of shit in my head that won’t let me. I’m James, now.” He swallows hard, then adds in an almost inaudible whisper, “I thought you’d be expecting your friend back. I just didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“Jesus,” Steve says, blinking back tears. “Buck—James, I don’t give a shit about that. You think I’m the same guy that went into the ice seventy years ago?” He lets out a little bitter laugh. “I’m not. I’ve seen things, and I’ve changed, and—”

“I know that, Steve, I just—”

“Stop it,” Steve says, pointing at him. “None of us are the same anymore, James. All of us have changed. You think you have a monopoly on it?”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“You should’ve fucking told me,” Steve says, and his voice breaks. “I don’t care who you are, if you’re James, or Bucky, or the Winter Soldier, or whatever you want to call yourself. When I look at you, I see the punk I grew up with. The guy who’d come save my ass every time I got into a fight. The guy who spent an entire summer inside with me when I was sick with pneumonia.” He rubs at his eyes, looking more miserable than Clint’s ever seen him before. “I see my goddamn friend, James. And you should’ve fucking told me you were alive.”

“I’m sorry,” James whispers. He reaches out, puts a hand on Steve’s arm. “I’m so sorry.”

“Who the hell isn’t,” Steve says, his voice bitter.

“Ain’t that the goddamn truth,” James says, and he pulls Steve into his arms.

Clint watches for a moment, then has to turn away. He feels like he’s intruding on something personal. Something that belongs to just these guys. Clint likes James, he knows there’s _something_ between them, but in this moment he also can see there’s a link between James and Steve that he’s never going to understand. Some kind of brotherhood that spans almost a century.

It makes his heart ache, in a way. Makes him miss Barney. There’s something to be said for shared formative experiences.

He wanders back into the room and over to Natasha. She’s standing quietly in the corner, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Thinking hard. Probably coming up with a plan to raid the Hydra base.

“Thor,” Clint says, waving him over. “Can you ask her if she found Barney?”

“Romanoff,” Thor says. “Barton wants to know if you found Barney.”

Natasha blinks once, then nods. “I did,” she says, eyes roving around until Thor points out where Clint is. “He’d heard already. But he said he was glad I came to tell him anyway.” She smiles softly. “He looks good, Clint. Looks happy.”

“Good,” Clint says. “Good. I’m glad.”

“Of course,” she adds, “now I’m going to have to tell him I was wrong, and you’re not actually dead after all.”

Clint snorts. “Sorry, not sorry?”

Thor laughs. “I suspect he’ll be glad to hear the opposite,” he says. “We all were.”

“I thought she was going crazy,” Tony says, moving over. He steps through Clint, then shivers. “Did I just—”

“You did,” Thor says, and Tony shudders a little. Clint feels like he should be mildly offended, but then James and Steve come back in, and he forgets about it in favor of catching James’s eye across the room.

James says something to Steve, his expression tender, then makes his way across the room to Clint. “Things go okay?” Clint asks.

James nods. “We’ve got some shit to work out, but I think we’ll be okay.” He nudges Clint with his elbow. “You were spot on about the lecture, by the way.”

“Ha. Called it.” Clint grins at him. “Told you.”

“Yeah, yeah. I knew he would.”

Tony is looking back and forth between the two of them. “This is so weird,” he says. “How come we can’t see him?”

“Because you don’t know how to access the astral plane,” James says.

“Thor can see him.”

“That is because I am mighty,” Thor says, his voice grand and booming. Then he drops the persona and looks at Clint. “I have to ask, however. The night you died—was that you trying to get my attention?”

Clint nods. “I thought you could hear me. You reacted to me, anyway, at least a little bit. I followed you all the way up to your room, and—” He blushes, suddenly remembering what happened after that. “Uh. Anyway, I never got a response out of you. Not a decent one, anyway.”

“I thought I heard you,” Thor says sadly. “I am sorry I did not pursue it further.”

Clint shrugs. “Not your fault. No way you could’ve known.” He gestures at himself. “This wasn’t exactly on the list of things I expected to happen to me in my lifetime.”

“So what did you do?” Thor asks. “Between then and now? That was nearly six months ago.”

“Uh.” Clint shivers a little bit, thinking about all those months alone. “I just kind of...wandered. Explored the city. Walked around.” He glances at James. “Then I saw this guy, and freaked him out in the park.”

“Only a little bit,” James says with a slight smile. “I thought he was on drugs.”

“That is a long time to be alone,” Thor says softly. “I’m sorry.”

Clint shrugs again, trying for casual. “It’s okay. I’ve got—I’ve got James, now. And you guys know.”

James puts an arm around him. “I got you,” he says, and Clint leans into him. He’s never going to take something as simple as touch for granted ever again.

Tony and Natasha look lost as hell, glancing back and forth between the three of them. Clint spares a thought for how weird James must look right now, with his arm apparently resting in midair.

“Well,” Tony says. “This is...different.” He looks around. “So what do we do now?”

“We make a plan,” Natasha says. “Things we want to know, things Clint should look for when he’s in there.” She looks at him. “We’re not leaving anything up to chance this time. If we’re going to take on Hydra, we’re going to do it right.”

Clint nods. Maybe having a solid infiltration plan will make him feel better about this. Help ease that gnawing feeling in his stomach that something is going to go terribly wrong the moment he sets foot into the base. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s get it done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot), and by [flowerparrish](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/flowerparrish). Thank you!


	10. chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m guessing. Tell me.”
> 
> Clint gestures around. “This is my family,” he says. “And they’re all—they’re okay, and alive, and we’re together again, and they know I’m here.” He taps the keyboard, which Steve had brought up for him. “And I can talk to them, sort of.”

They break after another hour of planning and strategizing, deciding to call it off for the rest of the night. Strange makes them a portal, and the whole team—along with Clint and James—go back to the Tower. It’s strange, being back here. Even more strange that his team _knows_ he’s here. It’s been so long.

James squeezes his hand. “You okay?”

“I’m alright,” Clint says. “It’s just different. Being back here.”

Tony nods towards his labs. “I’m going to figure out a way to get you into the base,” he says. “You said it was a handprint scanner?”

“It was. I think they also called, though? Both times I saw people go in, they were on the phone first.”

James relays this to Tony, who looks concerned for a moment. Then he shrugs. “Well. We’ll just have to make it look like a computer malfunction, I’m thinking. Make it look like the elevator just randomly opened on its own. Can he carry things?”

“He can now,” James says. “Strange was able to modify him a little bit. Just enough to help.”

“Cool,” Tony says. “So if he could do that, why can’t I see him?”

“Because you’re not special enough,” Clint snaps, and James snickers. “Can you tell him to cut the crap and get to work? I want to get going on this.”

“It doesn’t matter,” James says to Tony, casting a sideways, concern-filled glance at Clint. “Can you really get the elevator open?”

Tony puffs up his chest. “I can do anything,” he says. “I’m a genius.” He points at Clint. “Gonna need Ghost Boy to come with me, though. Need to see what he can do.”

“That is not my nickname,” Clint protests. “James, tell him that’s not my nickname.”

“Anything you want, Ghost Boy,” James says with a smile, and Clint punches him in the arm.

Behind them, someone clears their throat. “James,” says Steve, and all three of them turn. “Can I...can we talk a little bit?”

“I need him,” Tony says. “He’s translating.”

Clint looks at James’s face, reading both the pain and the longing hidden behind the stoic mask. “Do you want to talk to him?” he asks softly. “James.”

“Yeah,” James murmurs. “I do. But if you need me—”

“I don’t,” Clint says. “Not for this, anyway. I can touch stuff, right? I can text him or type or tap shit in Morse code. He really is a genius, we’ll figure something out.” He wraps James in a quick hug. “Go talk to him.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Clint says. “Go on. It’s okay.”

James kisses him, then nods at Tony. “He’ll follow you. He can pick things up now. He can write, or tap Morse code or whatever.”

“What is this, the Dark Ages? I have a computer. He can type things.” Tony looks at a spot to the left of Clint, then shrugs. “Come with me, ghosty.”

“I’m gonna haunt you forever if you keep calling me that,” Clint threatens as he falls into step beside Tony, heading down the stairs. “I can touch things now. I’m gonna rearrange all your shit in the middle of the night. Leave threatening messages on the walls and everything.”

“Okay,” Tony says as they walk into the lab. “Um...where are you?”

Clint reaches out and picks up one of Tony’s pens, then taps it on the table. Tony glances his direction. “JARVIS, buddy, can you see him at all? On any spectrum?”

“There does appear to be a concentrated area of electromagnetic activity where Agent Barton has indicated he’s standing, but that is the only indication of his presence, sir.”

“Huh.” Tony examines him, an interested light in his eyes. “So _Ghosthunters_ was onto something? I wonder if—”

“Not the time,” Clint says. He uses the pen to tap in Morse code. T-Y-P-E.

“Right,” Tony says. “Okay.” He looks around. “Most of mine are laser, but I think I’ve got a few real ones around here.” He digs around in a desk drawer for a bit, then comes up with an actual keyboard. “Here we go.”

It’s the work of a moment to get it set up and then he presents it to Clint’s general direction with a flourish. Clint pokes a couple keys, grins when they respond to his touch, then types, _Good to see you again._

“You too,” Tony says. “I’m, uh...really glad you’re not dead?”

_You and me both._

Tony taps his hand on the table, then says, “Okay. So what are your restrictions, ghost-wise? Anything you can’t do?”

_I can’t walk through walls. Or solid things. And I can pick stuff up now._

“Things don’t go invisible when you touch them,” Tony says, eyes on the keyboard. “I can see the keys you’re pressing. What about when you eat stuff?”

_Don’t eat. Don’t need to._

“Really?” Tony looks torn for a moment, hand hovering over a couple electronic components. “But then how—”

_Magic. Focus, Tony._

“Right. Elevator.” Tony starts rummaging through nearby drawers. “Okay, so there’s a handprint scanner.”

Clint nods, then remembers Tony can’t see him. _Yes_.

“But you don’t have a handprint, because you’re a ghost.”

_Right_.

“Alright. So I need to make you something that’s gonna fool those components, that you can leave behind, because people are probably going to question it if there’s things randomly floating around.” He grabs a StarkPad and starts scribbling things on it. “I think I have a couple of ideas...” He trails off, muttering calculations to himself.

Clint’s not sure why he’s supposed to be down here. It’s not like he can really help, and Tony’s ten times as smart as he is—anything that Clint could add he’s probably already thought of. So there’s really no point in him staying. And he wants to know how James is doing, see if he needs any moral support or anything.

He’s about to say something along those lines when Tony takes a deep breath. “Look,” he says. “About before. All that stuff I said.” He rubs a hand over his face, looking exhausted and faintly embarrassed. “You know that’s just me being an asshole, right? I mean, I am a little interested, but you don’t have to give me details on your sex life.”

Clint laughs. _I know that_ , he types. _I wasn’t going to anyway._

“Good.” Tony keeps fiddling with whatever he’s working on. He doesn’t look at Clint, but Clint knows him well enough to know there’s something else he wants to say. He doesn’t push it. Tony will talk when he’s ready. Trying to pull words out of him before then is like pulling teeth.

“Give me that screwdriver,” Tony eventually says, pointing at a small screwdriver across the table. Clint grabs it and hands it to him, still a little thrilled with the way that he can pick stuff up now.

Tony stares at it for a moment. “That’s so freaky,” he says, taking it. “It just...floats.” He tilts his head. “I don’t like it.”

_Sorry_ , Clint types.

“You don’t have to apologize.” Tony sets to work with the screwdriver, then says, “If anyone here’s gonna apologize, it should be me.”

_About what?_

“About you. And what happened.” He looks at the screen, and Clint can hear the depth of guilt in his voice. “I should’ve been faster.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Clint says immediately, and then types it. _It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Shit happens sometimes. I don’t blame you._

Tony doesn’t look mollified. “I knew that guy had something on him. I fucking knew it. I should’ve done something.

_Stop it,_ Clint says, trying to type as fast as he’s talking. _I don’t blame any of you. It was just a weird fucking freak accident._

“I know,” Tony says, eyes on the screen. “I just...feel like shit about it.” He closes his eyes for a moment, looking pained. “Which I know is a me thing, not a you thing. But I do.”

_You shouldn’t._

“I know I shouldn’t.” Tony reaches for another thing. “But I’m glad you’re alive. And whenever you’re not all ghosty, I think we should get pizza or something.” He tightens a screw. “You can bring your boyfriend.”

Clint smiles. _That sounds great,_ he types.

“Awesome.” Tony holds out a hand. “Give me that motherboard over there.”

Clint hands it to him. _I missed you._

“Yeah.” Tony finally looks at him, and Clint can see the barest hint of tears in his eyes. “I missed you too.”

He keeps talking after that, telling Clint about the missions that he missed, and the things that happened in the tower while he was gone. Clint doesn’t tell him he was around for some of it. He likes the animated way Tony is talking, the notable decrease in tension between them. They haven’t always gotten along, the two of them, but all of that suddenly seems unimportant now. Tony’s his friend, and Clint’s so happy to be here with him that it almost makes his heart ache.

James comes down about twenty minutes later, accompanied by Steve. “Hey,” he says, putting a hand on Clint’s shoulder. “How’s it going?”

“I’m being a genius,” Tony says absently, waving a hand. “Everyone please go away so I can do my thing.”

“You let Clint stay down here,” Steve points out.

“Clint doesn’t talk. I can ignore him as needed.” He flips off the screen. “Case in point.”

“Rude,” Clint says. He looks up at James. “How was your chat?”

James smiles softly. “Progress,” he says. “Of a sort.”

“You think you guys will be okay?”

“I think we’ll get there.”

Both Steve and Tony are watching them. “It’s so weird,” Tony says. “It’s like hearing someone on the phone, you know? When you only hear half of it? But we know he’s there.”

James shrugs. “Magic,” he says. “Do you need us down here, or...”

“You can go.” Tony waves a hand. “I should only need another hour or so.”

Clint looks at James, then nods towards the stairs. “Come on. Let’s go see what everyone else is doing.” He starts up them, only to realize that Steve is staying in the lab—and oddly enough, Tony doesn’t seem to mind. He just murmurs something in response to a question, flashing him a sad smile. Steve nods, and then—

“What the fuck,” Clint says, watching him kiss Tony on the forehead. “What—hang on—when did those two get together?”

James laughs and takes his arm. “Close your mouth and come with me, sweetheart.”

“But I have questions,” Clint protests. “Like...so many.”

“Let Tony do his thing. You can ask him later.” He pulls Clint towards the stairs. “Come on, I’m hungry. I need to eat something.”

“Guess you never did get that pizza,” Clint comments, turning away from Steve and Tony. He supposes he’s not really surprised—Tony always did kind of have a thing for Steve, but Clint had assumed they’d both be too emotionally constipated to do anything about it.

Then again, it’s not exactly like _he’s_ got a handle on healthy emotions, so maybe he shouldn’t comment on anything.

“Shut up,” James says, but he’s smiling. “I’ll make something that doesn’t require an oven.”

“There’s a really good Chinese place around the corner,” Clint says. “Open twenty-four hours. Wanna go there?”

James considers for a moment. “Yeah, actually. That sounds better than a sandwich.”

“Cool.” Clint slides his hand into James’s. “Follow me.”

* * *

They end up getting enough Chinese for everybody, and there’s something of an impromptu team dinner, with various people drifting in and out of the lounge, snagging bites of food as they pass through. Clint perches on the counter as he watches everybody else eat, unable to keep the smile off his face.

“What’re you so happy about?” James asks, digging around a container.

“You know,” Clint says.

“I’m guessing. Tell me.”

Clint gestures around. “This is my family,” he says. “And they’re all—they’re okay, and alive, and we’re together again, and they know I’m here.” He taps the keyboard, which Steve had brought up for him. “And I can _talk_ to them, sort of.”

James bumps him with an elbow and smiles. “I’m happy for you.”

“They can be your family too,” Clint says. “After, I mean. When everything’s fixed.” He gestures around. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. But you’re welcome here.”

James’s face suddenly gets pensive, and he taps his chopsticks on the side of the container. “I don’t really want to do that anymore.”

Clint’s heart twists a little. “Do—”

“What you guys do.” James turns to face him. “I spent a long time with Hydra, you know? I had to do a lot of terrible things in their name, and when I finally got out and got myself back together, I swore I’d never do anything like that again. I just want a quiet life.”

“Oh.” Something in Clint’s chest eases. “I thought you were talking about me.”

James shakes his head, a hint of a smile breaking over his face. “No, I definitely still want to do you.”

Clint lets out an undignified snort of laughter and drops his head onto James’s shoulder. “Thank you. That’s an ego booster.”

“Anything for you.”

“But I mean it. You don’t have to come on missions with us, but I’m probably not gonna stop.” He gestures around. “I miss this. I miss shooting my bow, and being helpful, and making a difference.”

“Haven’t you sacrificed enough?” James asks quietly. “You got pulled into the astral dimension on a mission. That would be enough to make anyone stop.”

Clint sits up. “I mean, sometimes it sucks. But this is who I am, James. This is what I do.” He looks at Nat and Bruce, who are quietly chatting over a plate of potstickers. “I might take a break, for a bit. But I don’t want to give it up entirely.” He looks at James. “I like being Hawkeye.”

James studies him for a moment, then nods. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay, as in, I’ll support you. I don’t get it, but if that’s what you want, I’m not going to tell you otherwise.” He takes another bite, then adds, “We’ve only known each other for a little bit. I certainly don’t have any right to demand you quit.”

Clint lets out a long breath. “No, you don’t.”

James smiles. “I still want to keep seeing you, if that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay.” Clint pokes his leg. “You still have to do me, remember?”

That gets a laugh. “After that, I mean. That’s not the end goal, it’s just a...bonus.”

“I know. You’re more of a gentleman than that.” Clint laughs. “But seriously, even if you’re not on missions, these guys can still be your family. I think Steve would be thrilled to have you around, and everyone else is great too. And they’d _love_ Lucky—” He stops suddenly. “Wait, shouldn’t we—”

“I texted a friend of mine,” James says. “She’s gonna take him for awhile. She stopped by to get him while you were sleeping.”

“Oh, good.” Clint nods. “I was worried for a second. Didn’t want him cooped up in your little apartment all alone.”

“No, he’s okay. That’s sweet you were thinking about him, though. I like that.”

“He’s a great dog.”

“He is.” James yawns and checks his watch. “It’s almost five.”

“Bedtime for you?”

“Close to.” He glances at the couch.

Clint jumps off the counter, tucking his keyboard under his arm. “Oh, no you don’t. I have a perfectly good bed upstairs. We can go up there.”

James tosses his container in the garbage. “That would be nice.” He lets Clint pull him towards the elevator. “I don’t need long, just a couple of hours.”

“I doubt anything’s happening until tonight,” Clint says. “I know I’m invisible, but Tony’s still gotta do his thing, and we still need to finalize a plan, and everyone else is going to need to rest up too.” He shrugs. “So we can do whatever we want for a little bit.”

“Sounds good.”

JARVIS has to give them access, since Clint’s fingerprints still don’t work, but after a moment the elevator starts upwards. “I haven’t been in there in six months,” Clint says. “So it’s probably a terrible mess. Don’t judge me.”

James snickers. “As long as you have a bed, I don’t really care what the rest looks like.”

The doors open. It’s not as bad as Clint thought it would be. There’s still clothes strewn around, and arrows in the walls, and pamphlets for various take-out places littering his dresser. His favorite bow case is open on his bed, although the bow isn’t in it. He’ll have to ask Nat where that is.

James drifts over to the far wall, studying the collection of knives on display. He lets out a low whistle. “Damn. These are _nice_.”

“Thanks,” Clint says, puffing up a little. He’s proud of his knife collection. “I’ve put a lot of work into those.”

“Do you actually use them?”

“Just the top row, really. A pocket knife isn’t gonna do shit against man-sized bugs, you know? But they’re nice to look at.” He sets the keyboard down on his dresser. “I really like that one in the top left. I’ve got a couple of those around. Always try to have one on missions.” He bounces on his feet a little. “Can I show you the bows?”

“Sure,” James says, looking slightly amused. “Where are those?”

“Closet. I don’t have enough clothes to fill this monster, so I just use the dresser, and then I keep my babies in here.” He pushes open the door, and revels in the way James’s jaw drops just a little.

“Holy shit, Clint,” he says, stepping into the closet. It’s truly massive—it could honestly be another bedroom. Clint has no idea how any one person could wear that many clothes in a single lifetime. So he’d spent an afternoon tearing out the racks of the closet, then installing his own sets of shelves. Now he’s got thirteen bows on display in here, of all shapes and sizes and types. He’s proud of this too, really, maybe even more than the knives. He always feels a sense of accomplishment when he walks in here.

“This is awesome,” James says. He points at a case tucked in the corner. “Is that a sniper rifle?”

“Dragunov.” Clint sighs. “I’m more of a bow person, but it was a birthday gift from Tony. I break it out enough to calibrate it.” He notes the hungry look in James’s eyes. “You can have a go with it when all this is done.”

“I’d love that,” James says, turning to him. The hungry look deepens, turning into something more substantial. “And I want to watch you shoot your bow.” He eyes Clint’s arms.

“Happy to,” Clint says, flexing a little. “We can have a contest. Bet I’m a better shot than you.”

“I doubt that.”

“Hey!” Clint elbows him. “I’m a great shot. I can hit anything.”

“Right,” James says. “The Amazing Hawkeye, World’s Greatest Marksman.” He raises an eyebrow, clearly holding back a grin.

“You’re a dick,” Clint tells him. “As soon as I have a body, we will settle this like men.” Technically they _could_ settle it now, but James is tired, and Clint wants to do it properly. “In the meantime, you should probably sleep.”

James nods. “Come to bed with me,” he says, and that’s an offer Clint can’t refuse. He clears the bow case off his bed, tucking it into a corner of the room. James reaches for his shirt, then hesitates. “Do you care if I get undressed a little?”

Well, that’s just fucking _adorable_. Clint can’t stop himself from laughing. “I already saw you in your underwear,” he reminds James. “Also, we were about thirty seconds from getting naked when Strange called you, so I don’t know what you’re concerned about, really.” He pulls off his own shirt to help illustrate the point.

James shrugs. “Just checking,” he says, and pulls off his jacket, setting it over the back of a chair. Clint flops onto his stomach on the bed, kicking his feet up in the air and propping his chin on his hands. James pauses for a moment, giving him an amused look. “What are you doing?”

“I like watching you,” Clint says. “I mean, you gotta know what you look like.”

“I do know,” James says easily. “Doesn’t mean I don’t like hearing it, though.” He tugs his shirt off and sets it on the chair, then does the same with his pants before sitting on the bed. “Are you gonna sleep at all?”

“I might,” Clint says, considering. “I’m still a little wiped from whatever Strange did, and then there’s been a lot of draining emotions.” He waves a hand. “Plus, if I’m gonna be creeping around a Hydra base, I might as well get all the rest I can.”

“Are you still worried about that?”

“Yeah.” Clint swallows and rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “I just can’t shake this feeling, James. I know you guys are my backup, and I know you won’t let me get stuck down there. But I just...” He rubs a hand through his hair. “It’s stupid, really.”

“It’s not stupid,” James says. “I felt the same way before the train.”

“What train—oh, the one you fell from?”

“Yeah.” He bites his lip. “The whole night before, I just had this bad feeling in my stomach. I thought I was just nervous. Zip-lining onto a moving train in the middle of winter’s not exactly safe, you know? And then the next day...” He trails off, staring down at his left arm. “Well. You know what happened.”

Clint’s not sure if that’s supposed to make him feel better or worse, really, but he shoves it aside and crawls over to James, wrapping him in a hug. “I’m sorry.”

“Shit happens,” James says, which Clint feels is an insufficient way to refer to seventy years of torture and brainwashing. “Anyway. I’m sorry, this probably isn’t helping.”

“Not really,” Clint admits.

James sighs and turns, moving so that Clint is tucked up against him, legs tangled together. “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you,” he says. “I promise.”

“I know you won’t,” Clint says. “I just...wish I could shake it.” He tries for a smile.

James shifts a little, moving his arm so he can run his fingers through Clint’s hair. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Probably not.” Clint presses his face into his shoulder. “But this is a good start.”

“Okay, sweetheart,” James murmurs, and kisses his head. “I can do this all day.”

* * *

They do both end up sleeping for a little bit. Clint wakes warmer than he usually is, and realizes that he’s almost completely sprawled on top of James. James’s hand is lightly stroking up and down his spine, petting him like he’s a cat or something, and it feels so damn good that Clint decides he’s never going to move again.

“Hi,” James murmurs. “You pretending to sleep again?”

“How do you even know I’m awake?” Clint mumbles into his chest.

“I’m just that smart.” James chuckles lightly. “Also, your breathing changes a little bit when you wake up.”

“Mmm.” Clint starts to move, and James tightens his grip. “Okay. Not moving.”

James chuckles again. “You’re fine where you are, sweetheart. I don’t mind.”

Clint hums in acknowledgment and settles onto him. “You’re warm.”

“Can you feel that?”

“Yeah. Not a lot? Like, it’s muffled. But I can feel it a little bit.”

“Probably from what Strange did.” James says. “Also, I run hotter than most people. From the serum and everything. My normal body temperature’s elevated.”

“You’re hot,” Clint agrees sleepily.

James laughs and kisses his head. “You’re adorable.”

Clint smiles and keeps his eyes closed, half tempted to go back to sleep. It’s been a long time since he’s felt this comfortable, or this safe. Which is objectively amusing, if he thinks about it. He’s never been one to trust easily. Coulson had worked for _years_ to earn it, and even he and Nat had taken a long time to get truly close. He appreciates his teammates, and trusts them in battle, but outside of that, he still tends to keep to himself. He’s never been one to blindly throw himself into relationships. Yet here he is, a mere week after meeting James, half-naked and sprawled on top of him.

“What are you thinking about?”

“You,” Clint says, raising his head a little. “Us.”

“Oh?” James rubs at a knot in his shoulder, and Clint melts into a little puddle on him. “What about?”

“Just that it’s weird,” Clint says, then backpedals. “Not us—not like that—I mean—” He drops his head onto James’s chest and groans. “I miss coffee, dammit. Talking is hard.”

James pats his shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re laying in bed with me; I don’t have any doubts that you like me.”

“I definitely like you,” Clint tells him. “Don’t worry about that.”

“Good.”

There’s a soft tone above them, and then JARVIS’s voice echoes through the room. “Agent Barton, I apologize for disturbing you, but Captain Rogers is requesting both of you return to the lounge.”

James stiffens underneath him. “Who the hell is that?”

“It’s JARVIS,” Clint says, patting his arm. “Tony’s A.I.”

“Does it watch us?”

“No. No cameras in the rooms. He’s just wired into the rooms for sound.”

“I thought it was just the elevator.”

“He helps run the whole tower.” Clint shifts enough to look at him. “It’s cool, I promise. He’s not spying on us or anything.”

James still looks distantly uncomfortable. “Okay.”

“He’s fine. He’s a chill guy.”

“It’s a robot.”

“Doesn’t mean he can’t be chill.” Clint pats his arm again, then reluctantly rolls himself off James. “Ugh. Come on. Let’s see what Steve wants.”

They dress, then head back down to the lounge. Steve is waiting for both of them, sitting next to Tony on the couch. Clint notes how close they are, and the way Steve’s hand is resting barely inches away from Tony’s own fidgeting one. “I want to know when this started,” he says to James, gesturing between them. “Because they weren’t like this when I left.”

“Clint wants to know when you guys got together,” James says, settling on the couch opposite them.

“We’ve been together for a year, actually,” Steve says, and Clint stares at him in shock. “We just didn’t tell the team. But then Clint died, or we thought he died, and, well...” He looks at Tony. “We both needed the reassurance, I think.”

“Something like that,” Tony says. “But anyway.” He holds up a small circular device. It looks like a tiny version of his arc reactor, “This is your way in. You’re gonna attach this to the scanner, and it’ll open the doors for you.” Clint reaches out and picks it out of his fingers. Tony flinches a little at his touch. “Man, that’s _so_ weird.”

“Stop it,” Clint says. “So, how does this work?” He looks around. “Shit, I left the keyboard upstairs. James, ask him.”

“He wants to know how it works.”

“If I explain that, we’ll be here all day.” Tony points at it. “Suffice to say that I’m a genius, and it’ll work. You put that on the scanner, it’ll do its thing.”

James studies it. “And then what? How does he get back out?”

“As soon as he attaches it, I’ll have access to the doors. I can open them whenever I want. All he has to do is say the word.”

Steve frowns. “The base is underground, you think comms will work down there?”

“ _My_ comms will,” Tony says, sounding offended. “Clint, you’ve still got your ears in, right?”

“Yeah,” Clint says. “Anything that was on me when I died is still with me.” He reaches up and touches his ear.

James looks at him, surprise in his eyes. “You’re deaf?”

“Yeah.” Clint points at his ears. “I normally wear my other ones, but I was working on them when I got called out for the last mission, so these are my backups. They’re hard to see.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Does he?”

“Yes,” James says, still examining the aids with interest. “He’s wearing them.”

“Cool.” Tony pulls out his phone and swipes on it a few times. “Okay. Just a matter of getting the frequency. JARVIS?”

“I have it, sir.”

Tony nods. “Comms check,” he says into the phone, and Clint flashes a thumbs up.

Steve rolls his eyes. “I think it would work better if he wasn’t sitting five feet from you,”

“He can hear you,” James says. “And you’re _sure_ those will work underground?”

Tony bristles a little at that, and Steve puts a hand on his arm. “They’ll work,” he says. “Tony’s good at this stuff.”

“Okay. I’ll trust you.” He turns to Clint. “You’ll be able to talk to us,” he says. “That make you feel better?”

“Definitely,” Clint says. And it does, really. He’s still worried about going in, but knowing that he’ll be able to communicate with the team is going a long way towards easing that feeling gnawing at him. “Are they gonna be able to hear me?”

Tony’s hand tightens around the phone, and Clint suddenly realizes that his voice is coming from the speakers too, the words displayed on the screen along with it.

“Oh,” he says, hearing himself half a beat later. “Oh.”

Tony swallows hard, staring at the phone in his hand. Steve stares at it too, and Clint sees him blink rapidly a few times.

“What,” James says, looking back and forth between everyone. “What are you—”

“They can hear me,” Clint says, and there’s suddenly tears in his own eyes. “They can—that’s my _voice_ —”

Bruce suddenly pokes his head into the lounge. “Did I just hear—”

“Hi Bruce,” Clint says, and Bruce looks shocked. “I can talk now.”

“Oh my god,” Bruce says, and he disappears around the corner, returning a few seconds later with Nat in tow. “Do it again.”

“Hi Nat,” Clint says, and Nat goes completely still, eyes fixed on the phone.

“Is that...” she finally says, and Steve nods. “Oh.” She takes a couple steps towards the couches. “Hi, Clint. It’s...it’s good to hear you.”

“Yeah,” Clint says. “I...” James puts a hand on his knee, and Clint leans into him. He doesn’t know what to say.

Or rather, he does know. He’s got a whole bunch of things to say. But he’s pretty sure that if he starts talking, he’s going to end up sobbing. So he just clears his throat and goes with, “Alright. Well. This will make things easier.”

“I’ll say.” Tony looks proud of himself. “Okay, so. We send you in, you tell us what you see, and then when you want to come out, you just say the word. I fuck with the elevators, you get out, and boom. We have intel.” He grins. “Are you sure you want your body back, because this is really kind of handy—”

“Tony,” Steve interrupts, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t even go there.”

“I’m just saying—”

“We’re not leaving Clint as a ghost.” Steve looks at James. “We’re not.”

“No, you’re not,” James agrees. “But in the meantime, it _is_ useful.”

“Yeah it is,” Tony says. “Clint, you good on the plan?”

“Wait, that’s a plan?”

“ _Yes_ , it’s a plan, we just spent forever finalizing—”

Clint grins. “I’m just teasing you, man. I know what to do. I’m good.”

Tony huffs out a sigh. “Come on, buddy. Don’t do that to me.”

Natasha smiles, bright and clear. “So are we going tonight then?”

“I think we should,” James says, glancing at Clint. “If you’re good with that. Just so we can get started on a counter-plan. Might as well give ourselves as much time to act as possible.”

“Works for me,” Clint says. “When?”

Steve drums his fingers on his knee, looking thoughtful. “Let’s call it twenty-three hundred hours,” he says. “That gives everyone enough time to get things in order.” He looks around at all of them. “ _None_ of this goes to SHIELD. Once we have the intel we need, we can bring in Fury. Until then, let’s keep it just between us.”

There’s a general murmur of agreement. “I’ll let Thor know,” Bruce says.

“Where is Thor?” Clint asks.

“Doing Thor things.” Bruce shrugs. “I’ll text him.”

“Thor uses a phone now?”

“It’s a different world, Ghost Boy,” Tony says with a grin. “Don’t worry, we’ll catch you up on all the things you missed.”

“Sounds great,” Clint says, settling against James. “Looking forward to hearing it all.”


	11. chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Uh,” Clint says again, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Pierce is looking at him. Pierce can _see_ him. Pierce is _talking_ to him.
> 
> Shit.

Tony rigs up earpieces with Jarvis so Clint can talk to everyone without the phone, and they spend the whole day in the tower hanging out with the team. It’s relaxing, and a little domestic, and despite the upcoming infiltration hanging over his head, Clint can’t help but be happy. He’s learned, now, to take the good things as they come. To enjoy every single moment he’s got with the people he considers his family. He came _so_ close to losing all of this, and he’s never going to take it for granted again.

Clint expects James to say something about going back to his apartment, but he doesn’t. He stays by Clint’s side, fitting in so smoothly with the rest of them that it seems crazy to think he wasn’t there all along. Clint watches with awe as he gets Nat to crack a smile with some terrible Russian joke, and wins Tony’s heart by letting him examine his metal arm. Even Steve looks a little more relaxed, like a weight’s been lifted off his shoulders. He smiles at James constantly, a mix of longing and love in his eyes.

“He was blaming himself for what happened to me,” James comments quietly to Clint. “I told him if he tried to apologize again, I was going to punch him in the face.”

“And did he?”

“No,” James says, sounding a little sad. “But I’m sure I can find some other reason to punch him. Little punk.”

“Not so little anymore,” Clint points out.

“Yeah.” James looks across the room. “That’s gonna take some getting used to.”

“Didn’t you know?”

“Of course I did, I saw him in the war. But most of my memories are of him being this little asthmatic punk who couldn’t say no to a fight.”

“He still can’t say no to a fight.”

James laughs. “Well. That’s true.” He sighs. “Guess I have a thing for blond guys who like getting into trouble.”

“Hey,” Clint protests. “ _I’m_ perfectly capable of backing down from a fight.”

Across the room, Nat snorts. “You are _not_ ,” she says. “Don’t listen to him, James. Boy’s never backed down from a fight in his life.”

“Hey!” Clint protests, a little louder.

She raises an eyebrow, somehow managing to look directly at him. “Name one time, Barton. Just one.”

“I am not dignifying that with an answer,” Clint says, doing his best to sound high and mighty— _and_ backing down from a fight at the same time, take that, Nat.

She just snorts and goes back to chatting with Bruce. Clint studies the two of them for a moment, wondering if there’s something there, too. Christ, have all his teammates been screwing each other since he died?

He watches the way she smiles at him, and the way Bruce smiles back, and decides that he’s okay with it. Not that he gets a say or anything, but he’s onboard for anything that can make Natasha look like that. She deserves the world.

James is still talking about Steve, and Clint pulls his attention back to him. “—on Coney Island,” he’s saying, eyes bright with amusement. “He got beat to hell, and I ended up having to carry him home, and he...” He trails off, then frowns. “I don’t remember. I think someone yelled at us.”

“Your ma gave me a dressing down,” Steve says, coming over with a sketchbook. “She was _furious_ with me. Got a big long speech about how my mother worked hard at the hospital all day, and she deserved better than to come home and take care of me, just because I was too stubborn to walk away from a fight. Scared me straight for a few weeks until I caught Ronnie Wilks beating up on that one kid with crutches.” He hands James the sketchbook, suddenly looking nervous. “This is yours. Well, it’s _for_ you. I didn’t know you were alive, but since you are...” He shrugs. “You can have it.”

James takes the sketchbook and opens it to the first page. It’s a woman, beautifully drawn and illustrated in charcoal. She’s leaning against a wall, dressed in some kind of flowing sundress. Her hair is in a loose, intricately detailed braid that trails down her right shoulder, and she’s looking down with a small smile on her lips, like she’s faintly embarrassed about something. As if she’s just been complimented, and doesn’t really know what to do about it.

“Wow, Steve,” Clint says, studying the detail of it. “I didn’t know you could draw like this.”

Steve doesn’t answer. He’s watching James, who is staring at the drawing, looking like he’s been punched in the gut. He’s not even _breathing_ —just completely frozen in the moment, knuckles white where he’s gripping the edges of the book. “You...” he starts, then stops, blinking rapidly.

“I drew all of them,” Steve says quietly. “After I woke up. I wanted to remember them. You’re in there too, but for some reason I just—I remembered Rebecca’s face so _clearly_ , and that dress she wore. I told her she looked real pretty and she blushed, and I...I just had to draw it.”

“She was going out with a guy,” James murmurs, eyes still fixed on the drawing. “It was their first date.”

“Yeah.” Steve’s voice is hoarse. “She was so excited. She really liked him.”

Clint looks between them. “Who is it?”

“My sister,” James murmurs. “Rebecca.” He starts to touch the drawing, then pulls his hand away.

Clint looks at the drawing again. He can see it now, the resemblance between the two. The shape of her nose, the curve of her mouth, the way she’s leaning against the door. He marvels at how much of her Steve has been able to bring to life with nothing more than a piece of charcoal and some paper. It’s _amazing_. He knew that Steve could draw, but he had no idea it was anywhere near this level.

James closes the sketchbook, then stands up and hugs Steve. “Thank you,” he whispers, voice breaking. “ _Thank_ you.”

“You’re welcome,” Steve murmurs, hugging him back. “You can keep that. Most of it’s your family, anyway. I want you to have it.”

“Thank you,” James says again, tears making his voice thick. “I...you don’t know what it means to me.”

Steve steps back and smiles, his own eyes a little watery. “I miss them too,” he says. “I hope it helps. At least a little.”

“I love it,” James says. “I’ll...I’ll look at the rest later.”

They look at each other for a long moment. Then Tony calls Steve’s name, and he glances towards the kitchen. “Let me know if you have questions,” he says, then heads over that direction.

James sits back down next to Clint. “It’s my sister,” he says again. “Rebecca. We were real close as kids, and I just...” He swallows hard, opening the sketchbook again. “I miss her a lot.”

“I’m sorry,” Clint says.

James rubs his eyes. “She was a hell of a girl,” is all he says, and then flips to the next drawing. This one is of an older woman, with shorter hair. Clint barely gets a look at it before James slams the book closed, putting his hand over the cover. He takes a couple deep breaths, letting them out long and slow.

“Are you okay?” Clint asks, scooting closer. “James.”

“That’s my Ma,” he says, voice breaking. “I can’t—not right now. I can’t look at it.”

Clint tugs the book from his hands and puts it on the coffee table. “Okay,” he says quietly, putting an arm around him. “You don’t have to. We’ll take it up to my room and put it somewhere safe.”

“That would be good,” James says, leaning against him. “I just—I don’t think I can handle that right now.”

“You can look at it later,” Clint says. “We’ll pick a day. We’ll have some drinks and you can tell me about your family, and I’ll tell you about my brother, and we’ll have a great big manly sob-fest in front of a fire or something.”

James laughs. “Okay,” he says. “That sounds like a plan.” He wipes his eyes, then says, “You have a brother?”

“Barney. He’s a dick, but he’s okay most of the time. He’s my brother.” Clint nudges him. “I’ll save the juicy stuff for sob-fest night.”

“Looking forward to it,” James says, and he sounds a little bit more under control. “I’m gonna take this upstairs, okay?”

“Okay.” Clint pulls him into a kiss. “You alright?”

“I’ll be fine,” James says. “I just need to...prepare, for that.” He smiles sadly. “Been seventy years, but I still miss my ma.”

Clint can’t really relate to that. He’s got a few good memories of his mother, but nothing enough to warrant missing her. But he just smiles and says, “Can’t wait to hear about her.”

“Clint,” Tony calls. “Come over here, I want to test something for tonight.”

“Go,” James says. “I’m gonna take this upstairs like you said.” He puts his hand on Clint’s shoulder, a slight smile on his face, then murmurs something in Russian to him before walking away.

Clint watches him go, something twisting in his chest. He just wants to hug James, wants to wrap him up and hold him for a minute. It’s not _fair_ that he’s been through so much. That he’s lost so much. Clint had six months of being alone. James had _seventy years_. He’s lost his family, and his friends, and his memory, and it’s just not fucking fair.

_You’re a good person,_ he thinks, watching James disappear into the elevator. _You deserve better._

Probably deserves better than Clint, really. A week isn’t enough time to really get to know anyone, and Clint knows he’s got more baggage than most people. He wouldn’t be surprised if James eventually dropped him at some point.

Still. He seems to want to stick around, for now, and as long as that’s the case, Clint’s gonna take what he can get.

* * *

Twenty-three hundred hours rolls around too soon for Clint’s taste, and the mood of the tower changes into something tenser. The sick feeling in his stomach creeps back in, to the point where he starts pacing the length of the lounge, too keyed up to keep sitting still.

“Clint,” James eventually says. “You’re gonna wear yourself out.”

“I don’t sleep,” Clint shoots back, which isn’t necessarily true, but he flops back onto the couch anyway. “Sorry. I’m worked up.”

“You can tell us no,” James says. “We don’t have to send you in there. We can do something else.”

“This is the smart thing to do,” Clint says. “I’m invisible. I can relay information to you guys in real time. This is probably the single greatest chance we’re ever gonna have to learn what the hell Hydra’s doing. We can’t pass this up, no matter how I feel about it.”

James looks like he’s gonna protest, but then Tony calls for Clint to come test something, and the moment is lost. There’s a whirlwind of gathering things, and people, and getting transport to the Navy Yard, with the end result being Clint doesn’t get a chance to talk to him again until they’re in position.

“You clear on this?” Tony asks, handing him the little disc.

“I got it,” Clint says. “Comms good?”

“Loud and clear,” Nat says.

Steve sticks his shield on his back. “Okay,” he says. “Clint, you’ve got one hour. You talk to us the whole time. Tell us everything you see. If you’re not out in an hour, or we think you’re in trouble, we’re coming in after you.”

“Got it,” Clint says.

“No haunting things,” Steve orders. “No spinning chairs, no floating papers. Get in, get out.”

“You’re so boring,” Clint mutters, but he wasn’t planning on doing that anyway. No point in announcing something’s weird to any of the assholes in there.

“I mean it,” Steve tells him.

“He’s not going to,” James says. He puts his hand on Clint’s shoulder. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

Clint follows him a little distance from the others. “What’s up?”

“Tell me you’re okay with this,” James says, gesturing to the building. “Please.”

“I’m okay,” Clint says. “I’m just jumpy. I’ll be fine.” He kisses James, a reassurance. “You’ve got my back and I’ll be on comms the whole time. I trust you. Even if shit does go wrong, I know you’re coming in after me.” He smiles. “Nothing to worry about, right?”

“Right.” James pulls him into a quick hug. “Just checking.”

“I appreciate it,” Clint says. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll get the info, be out in an hour, and then we’ll go home and finish what we started in your apartment, okay?”

James looks confused for a second, then grins widely. “Okay,” he says. “I’m good with that.”

Clint kisses him again, going long enough that Nat clears her throat pointedly over the comms. “Not that watching James kiss an invisible person isn’t entertaining,” she says, “but we probably should get going.”

“Probably,” Clint sighs, barely centimeters from James’s mouth. “Or—and hear me out here—I could just keep doing this.”

“I like that plan,” James agrees, his hands sliding down over Clint’s ass. “I like it a lot.”

“ _Clint_ ,” Nat says, sounding both fond and exasperated. Her usual combination with him. “Now.”

Clint kisses him one more time, then reluctantly pulls away. “Alright. I’m going in.”

He slips into the darkness, sticking to the shadows out of habit. There’s no one around the door, and no one coming either. He glances around, then slaps the disk onto the hand scanner and steps back.

“Okay,” he says. “It’s on.”

“Got it,” Tony says, and Clint watches in awe as the disk unfolds itself, spreading over the scanner until it covers the whole thing. It looks like a protective screen, almost, nearly invisible to the naked eye. “Okay, give me a sec...”

“That’s awesome,” Clint says. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”

“How dare you.” The elevator slides open. “I’m a genius, you know that.”

“I know, I know. I’ll grovel appropriately when I’m out.” He darts into the elevator as the doors close.

Tony mutters something, and there’s a sharp sound. “Be nice,” Steve orders. “Clint, you in?”

“I’m in the elevator, yeah.”

“Good. Give us updates on everything. I want a full play-by-play.”

“Got it.”

After a minute, the elevator slows, and the doors open. Clint is immediately greeted by an array of guns, all of them pointed at him. He puts his hands up. “Don’t shoot,” he says automatically, then smacks himself in the forehead. “Moron. They can’t _see_ you.”

“Are people shooting at you?” James asks.

“No, they’re pointing guns at the suspiciously empty elevator.” Clint steps out, walking right through them. “Okay, I’m in.” He looks around. “Pretty much the same shit as last time. Desks, people. Nobody I recognize.”

“See what papers you can look through,” Steve says. “Without arousing suspicions.”

Clint does just that, narrating every single action as he walks around the room, reading over people’s shoulders and looking through what he can. It’s weird, being able to talk so much while on what’s technically a stealth mission. Even weirder that his teammates can talk back to him. He’s probably giving more information than he really needs to, but it’s reassuring to both sides, so he keeps going.

He’s in the middle of describing one agent’s particularly _awful_ haircut when one of the side doors opens, and in walks none other than Alexander Pierce. He’s talking with Sitwell, gesturing animatedly, keeping his voice low. Clint moves closer, but Pierce stops as soon as he’s within earshot.

It shouldn’t be a surprise. It _shouldn’t_. But it is anyway, because despite everything, there was still a tiny little part of him that really hoped Alexander Pierce might be the stand-up guy they all thought he was.

“Sir,” one of the agents says, walking over. “We’ve had a main elevator malfunction.”

Sitwell scowls. “What happened?”

“It just opened on its own,” the agent says. “No one was in it.”

“Get one of the techs to look at it,” Sitwell orders. “Is there anyone in the area? Any suspicious activity?”

“No,” the agent says. “We think the outer circuit malfunctioned. It’s happened once or twice before. We need an upgrade.” He shows Sitwell something on a tablet.

Clint glances over at Pierce, who is staring right at him. Clint knows he’s invisible, and Pierce is just looking through him, but it’s a little unnerving anyway. He takes a couple steps to the side, feeling marginally better when Pierce’s eyes don’t follow him.

“Talk to us,” James says in his ear, and Clint realizes he’s been quiet for a minute. “What’s going on?”

“Sorry,” Clint says. “We were right. Pierce is down here.”

There’s a murmur of voices, and then James says, “You doing okay?”

“Yeah. Just...disappointed.” Clint looks around. “I know it hasn’t been a full hour, but do you guys need anything else? I can’t look at anything else without going full ghost here, and I don’t think there’s much else to learn anyway.” He glances over at Pierce, who is murmuring something to Sitwell. “I’ll follow Pierce for a moment, see if he goes somewhere interesting. It’s like a fucking rabbit warren down here, by the way. I’m making a mental—”

Pierce looks through him again, and Clint turns around. There’s no one behind him, and that uneasy feeling settles in his gut again.

“Clint,” James says, and Clint jerks a little bit.

“Yeah. Sorry. I’m making a mental blueprint, is what I was gonna say.”

“What’s happening? You sound freaked out.”

Clint shivers. “Pierce keeps looking at me. It’s weird.” He pauses, then says, “He can’t see me, right?”

“There’s no reason he’d be able to,” James says, although he sounds unsure.

“Yell in his face,” Tony says. “That’ll tell you real quick.”

That’s an idea. Clint takes a couple steps forward, then yells, “Hey, asshole!”

Nothing. No flinch, no look, not even a blink. Pierce just keeps looking at a tablet, occasionally showing something to Sitwell.

“Well?”

“I think I’m just paranoid,” Clint says. Pierce pats Sitwell on the shoulder, then gets up, heading towards the door he came from originally. “He’s moving, I’m gonna follow him.”

“Clint, I really don’t think—” James starts.

“It’s cool. I’m just gonna see what he’s up to, and then I’ll get out.”

James mutters something in frustration, but Clint isn’t listening. He follows Pierce through the side door, which leads into another long, eerily empty hallway. The door at the end of this one opens into a room that looks like a smaller version of one of the computer labs at SHIELD. There’s a giant screen on the far wall, cycling through lines of code too fast for Clint to read. Two rows of desks and computers take up the middle of the room.

There are several people sitting at the computers, engaged in various things, and they look up as the door opens. “Out,” Pierce says, the single word full of command. It’s a little funny how they all scramble out the door, practically tripping over each other to clear the room. Clint watches them go, then turns back to Pierce. If he’s clearing the room, whatever he’s going to do must be important.

Pierce walks over to one of computers and types something, then stands back to wait. On the wall, the monitor starts displaying security footage, flipping through different sections of the Navy Yard.

“Huh,” Clint says, keeping an eye on it for his friends. “We’re in a computer lab. Kinda like the ones at SHIELD. There’s live security footage on the big screen. I don’t see you, but Tony might want to have JARVIS scan for tech again.”

There’s no response. Clint waits for a moment, then presses a finger to his hearing aid. “Guys?”

“They can’t hear you,” Pierce says.

Clint looks at him, expecting to see him on a phone or something. But he’s not. He’s standing upright, arms crossed, and looking right at Clint.

“Uh,” Clint says, a chill creeping up his spine.

“We insulated this room against frequencies that we don’t control,” Pierce says, waving a hand. “So your friends can’t hear you. And you can’t hear them. That’s why I brought you in here.”

“Uh,” Clint says again, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Pierce is looking at him. Pierce can _see_ him. Pierce is _talking_ to him.

Shit.

“I thought you died,” Pierce says. “But apparently that’s not the case.” He studies Clint. “You have an interesting aura. You’re not fully here, are you?”

“I’m on the astral plane,” Clint says faintly. “Kind of. How can you _see_ me?”

“That is a good question.” Pierce smiles. It’s not friendly. “One I’ll answer for you shortly. But first, I need to take care of your friends.” He gestures at the screen, and Clint turns to see a group of Hydra agents making their way across the Yard, guns up. His blood goes cold. “Admittedly, it’s a little earlier than we had planned, but I wasn’t expecting _you_ to show up.”

“I like to be surprising,” Clint says, and bolts for the door. If he can get out of this room, he can warn his friends, warn _James_ —

“I don’t think so,” Pierce says mildly, and the door flares with a bright red color around the outline of it. Clint yanks at the handle, but it doesn’t open, no matter how much he pulls on it. “I have some things I’d like to discuss with you.”

“How the fuck—” Clint pulls on the handle again. “How are you doing this? How can you see me?”

“Magic,” Pierce says simply, and Clint freezes, suddenly remembering what Strange had said about another sorcerer being involved.

He rests his head against the door for a moment. He knew it. He fucking _knew_ something was going to happen. Nothing in his life ever goes right for more than two goddamn seconds. 

Then he takes a deep breath and turns around. “You can do magic,” he says, and Pierce nods. “How?”

“Study and practice, mostly.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a dick?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

Well, that’s fair. Annoying, but fair. “Fine. We’re both dicks. Where the hell did you learn magic? Do you know Dr. Strange?”

“I know of him, yes. We’ve not had the pleasure of meeting.” Pierce taps his fingers on his arm. “How do you know him?”

“We get dinner every second Thursday,” Clint tells him, glancing at the screen. Nothing’s happening that he can see, but that doesn’t mean a damn thing. He’s got to get out of here. “We hang out and talk about magic things. It’s great fun.”

Pierce sighs. “You haven't changed a bit, I see.”

“You know, I’d call this disappointing,” Clint says, gesturing to him “But honestly, I’m kind of impressed. You really had us all going with this whole ‘good guy’ charade. Even Fury vouched for you. You’re gonna break his manipulative little heart.”

“Nick Fury is a good man,” Pierce agrees, leaning against the desk. “I’ve tried to persuade him to join us, more than once.”

“How would that even _work?_ ” Clint asks. “What, did you take him out to a nice dinner and then just casually mention it? ‘Oh, by the way, Fury, I’m an absolute bastard, and my organization of evil squid Nazis has a vacancy, care to join us in taking over the world?’”

Pierce laughs. It’s cold and condescending, and Clint wants to punch him in the face. “Something like that,” he says. “Regardless, he’s a good man through and through. He’s not with us. Which unfortunately means we will have to eliminate him some day.”

“Jesus, could you _be_ any more of a James Bond villain?” Clint tries the door again, even though he knows it’s useless.

“I do my best.” Pierce studies him with a contemplative expression. “So now the question is, what do we do with you?”

“I vote you let me go,” Clint says. “I mean, if we’re voting. I’m pretty sure you can’t kill me, so unless you’re planning on keeping me in this room forever...”

“Of course not,” Pierce says. “That would be ridiculous.” He’s still looking at Clint with that intrigued expression, like he’s sizing him up for something, and it’s making Clint very uncomfortable. “I have something else in mind.”

“That’s never a good thing,” Clint mutters, trying the door again. It’s still just as locked. He fights the urge to kick it. “I’m sure it’s going to be something just wonderful.”

“You see,” Pierce says, “we used to have a very talented operative under our control. A weapon, if you will. Highly trained, extremely deadly. He helped shape the century. Unfortunately, we lost control of him some time ago.”

_James_ , Clint thinks, and his blood goes cold. “Sounds like a personal problem.”

“Mmm. Well, we know where he is now. We intend to re-acquire him. However, with this happening, it’s come to my attention that we have been...remiss, I think, in limiting ourselves to one of him.”

There’s a sick feeling in Clint’s stomach. “You’re talking about the Winter Soldier,” he says, just to confirm.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“You won’t get him back.”

“We will.” Pierce tilts his head, studying him with a contemplative expression. “And I think we’ll have you join him as well. After all, people already think you’re dead. We can put that to good use.”

Clint clenches his fists. “In your fucking dreams,” he says. “I might not be a good man like Fury, but I’m sure as shit not joining your merry band of bastards.”

“I’m afraid you won’t have a choice,” Pierce says, still so icy calm. “Although, if you cooperate, it will certainly make things easier on you.”

“Buddy, I’ve never cooperated with a fucking thing in my life.” He’s breathing too fast, he knows, giving too much away, but all he can think about is the terror in James’s eyes when he’d talked about the Chair. Cold tendrils of fear spread through him, and it takes everything he has to keep it off his face. “I know what you all did to him. If you even _think_ I’m gonna just let you wipe my goddamn mind—”

Pierce raises an eyebrow. “Come again?”

“I said...” Clint trails off, suddenly realizing his mistake. Yeah, he shouldn’t have said that at all.

A cold smile spreads over Pierce’s face. “Interesting. You’ve _spoken_ to him.”

_Spoken to him, kissed him, would’ve fucked him if we didn’t keep getting interrupted._ “I have no clue what you’re talking about, asshole.”

It’s a pathetic lie, and Pierce dismisses it as such. “Doesn’t matter. Like I said, you have no choice in this.”

“Fine,” Clint says. “Good luck getting me into your fancy brain melting chair. I’m a goddamn ghost, remember?”

Pierce nods. “That is true. However, luckily for both of us, I have a solution to that.”

Clint stares at him. “...Say what, now?”

Pierce slips something out of his pocket. Some kind of ring, it looks like, with a glowing amethyst stone in the center. He slides it onto his right hand. “Stand still, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind,” Clint says. “I mind very much. What the fuck is that?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me, bitch.”

Pierce sighs. “It allows me to channel energy from the dark dimension. I’m going to use it to bring you fully into the material world.”

He raises his hand, and Clint steps aside. “Um, okay. First of all, dark dimension? Really? And secondly... _no_ , let’s not do that. I am perfectly happy as a ghost, and I’m not just going to let you—”

“Hold _still_ , Barton.”

Clint dodges to the side, but there’s really nowhere for him to go in this little room. He only gets in a few steps before something slams into his chest, knocking him to the ground.

“What the—” is all he gets out before his entire world turns into sheer agony.

It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before. It’s worse than Strange’s spell, worse even than when he got shot the first time. It’s like being burned _alive_ , like every inch of him is being devoured by hungry flames, leaving nothing but a howling, writhing mess in their wake.

“Really, now,” he hears Pierce say disparagingly, and that’s the last thing that he hears before passing out.

* * *

He comes back to himself in pieces.

Pain is the first thing he’s aware of. Not the pain of before— _thank god—_ but something more subtle. An ache in all of his bones, pulsing under his skin.

Clint acknowledges the pain, then does what he’s best at—shoves it away to focus on other things. He’s laying on the floor. There’s someone else nearby. Someone impatient, judging by the drumming fingers and exasperated sighs. Not James, probably, because James would be right next to him, making sure he was okay—

His memories slot into place a moment later, and he blinks his eyes open, squinting at the bright lights on the ceiling. _Pierce. Hydra. Danger._

“Fucking _ow_ ,” he says, to no one in particular. Except it sounds more like a screech, and just serves to make him cough.

“About time,” says Pierce, suddenly looming over into his field of vision. “Welcome back.”

Clint summons every bit of energy he can, then channels it into raising his middle finger. “Fuck you.” It comes out as a screechy mess too, but judging by the way Pierce’s mouth thins, he gets the idea.

“I’m glad you survived,” he says. “You’re quite strong. You will make an excellent Winter Soldier.”

“Fuck you,” Clint says again, and forces himself to roll over. _Come on, Hawkeye. On your feet._

“Easy,” Pierce says, not making a move to help. “Take your time. I’m in no rush.”

Clint clears his throat and pushes up to his knees. “You...suck.” He drags in a ragged breath. “The fuck did you do to me?”

“I told you,” Pierce says, looking exasperated. “I used energy from the dark dimension to bring you back into the material world.” He looks Clint up and down, then says, “I gave you a body, essentially.”

Clint holds out his hands, examining them. The shimmery edge is gone. He should be more excited about that, but he doesn’t have the energy. “Huh.”

“You’re welcome,” Pierce says.

“I’m not...thanking you.” Clint pats over his chest, although he’s not really sure why. Even as a ghost, he’s always felt solid to himself. “Didn’t mess...with my dick size, did you?”

“There’s no need to be crass, Barton.” Pierce snaps his fingers. “Get up.”

Clint rubs his eyes. He feels sick again, and exhausted, and he thinks longingly about the cot in James’s office, and how it felt to sleep there. “You dragged my soul out of the astral plane, can you not give me two seconds to recover?” His voice is hoarse as hell. “And maybe some water?”

“I said get _up_ , Barton.”

“Thought you weren’t in a hurry.” Clint braces himself on his knees for a second, trying not to throw up. Although he’s not sure what would come up if he did; he hasn’t eaten anything in months.

Pierce looks over at the screen, and Clint follows his gaze. There’s some kind of fight happening. The computer doesn’t have audio, but he can see the flash of gunfire, and a familiar shine of a circular metal disk—Steve’s shield, he realizes.

He grabs a desk and pulls himself up to his feet, fighting back the nausea with every movement. He needs to do something. Needs to get out of here, go help, go save James, he can’t let Hydra have him again, not when he’s worked so hard to get away—

The door opens behind him, and multiple agents pour into the room. Clint puts up his best fight, but they subdue him easily, fixing flex cuffs around his wrists. “Nice to see you again,” one of them purrs in his ear, and Clint recognizes Rumlow’s voice.

“Go fucking figure,” he says, twisting to look the shorter man in the eye. “I always knew you were a little creep. Guess it’s nice to have that confirmed.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Rumlow says, pulling the cuffs tighter. “Sir, what do you want us to do with him?”

“Take him to the bank vault.” Pierce is watching the computer screen, eyes fixed on the fight. “I’ll meet you there shortly.”

“Look,” Clint starts.

Rumlow shoves his head to the side. “Shut the fuck up,” he says again, and jams something into Clint’s neck. Drugs. Must be the good ones, because they start working _real_ quick. “Alright. Let those kick in, and then get him out of here.”

Clint shakes his head, trying to fight the wave of exhaustion sweeping through him. He can’t sleep, he _can’t_ , he’s gotta help James—

“Not gonna be helping anybody,” Rumlow chuckles in his ear. “Except us.”

“Fuck you,” Clint slurs, going limp in his grasp. “Swear—gonna fuckin’ kill you—”

“Oh honey,” Rumlow murmurs. “You’re not gonna remember your own name by the time we’re through with you.”

Clint wants to argue, but the words seem to fade from his mind, and after a moment, so does everything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/) I'm also participating in the [Marvel Trumps Hate](https://www.marveltrumpshate.com/auction/1047-squadrickchestopher/) auction this year! Winning bid gets a story of their choice, (word count negotiable based on winning price), and all the money goes to a good cause! 
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot)
> 
> (also thank you everyone for reading and commenting—I don't always have the spoons to reply but please know I treasure each and every one of your words. It means a lot to me that people are reading this at all <3)


	12. chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The halo starts to move, the smaller padded sections rotating until they’re against his head, the larger one resting over the left side of his face, blocking his vision there, and the right pad resting just on his cheekbone, settling onto his skin.
> 
> _James_ , he thinks desperately, the word an apology and a prayer and a hope all at once.

He’s _cold_.

That’s the first thing he notices when he wakes up. It’s cold, and he’s shivering before he’s even fully awake, body recognizing this before his brain does. He’s face down on something—a floor, probably, arms no longer tied behind his back.

There’s voices around him. A lot of them. Clint chances a peek through slitted eyes, trying to get a better view of what’s going on. He vaguely remembers Pierce saying something about a bank vault, which would probably explain why he’s so cold—

“Is he awake yet?” he hears someone ask, and suddenly remembers Rumlow. “Wanna get this show on the road.”

A boot slams into his ribs, surprising him enough that he lets out a short yelp, curling into himself. “Ow,” he wheezes, turning his head to look. “Why?”

“He’s awake,” the agent says, turning back to Rumlow.

Clint licks his dry lips, then forces himself up to his knees. His shirt is gone, he realizes, and so are his shoes, leaving him in nothing but pants. Which would probably explain the cold—but he’s a _ghost_ , he can’t—

No. Not a ghost. Not anymore.

He looks down at his hands, turning them over in the bright lights. “Oh,” he says, holding them up, and yep, they’re solid. No more translucent edge. Tears prick his eyes, and he blinks them away furiously. He’s back. He’s a person again.

“The fuck are you crying about?” Rumlow snorts, nudging him with a shoe. “Get up.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Clint mumbles, and drops his hands down. He looks around. It actually is a bank vault—marble floors, safety deposit boxes everywhere. There’s a couple agents guarding the doors, and a few guys in lab coats hovering around three portable computer monitors, and a chair—

No. Not a chair.

_The_ Chair.

It’s just as horrible as Clint imagined it would be—a thinly padded reclining board, with wings where a person’s arms would go. There’s straps on them, normal ones on the right side, and thick magnetic cuffs on the left. Above the reclining board is a large halo, split into two sections, with smaller electronic parts on the bottom half that look like they might fit over someone’s head.

Clint doesn’t realize he’s staring at it until Rumlow chuckles and pats his head. “That’s right,” he says. “That’s gonna be your new best friend.”

“You put J—the Winter Soldier in that,” Clint says, voice barely audible. “That’s—that’s how you wiped his memory?”

“Yep,” Rumlow says. “And now it’s your turn. Up.”

It’s stupid to fight. Clint knows it’s stupid. He doesn’t even have shoes on, and he has no weapons, and he doesn’t know where he is, and there are seven heavily armed agents in here, and he’ll never make it anywhere. But he fights anyway, desperate and feral, because he _knows_ what that chair did to James, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to walk into that thing willingly.

He gets his hits in, at least. Three agents are down, two most likely for good, by the time they wrestle him into it and get him pinned down, wrapping straps around his wrists, ankles, and stomach.

“Christ,” Rumlow says, stepping back. He’s breathing heavily, blood dripping from his nose. “You’re good, kid. I’ll give you that.”

“We’re the same goddamn age, don’t call me kid,” Clint snaps. His heart is pounding in his ears, and he’s so scared, more scared than he’s ever been. His brain keeps flipping through memories, like he’s watching a high-speed presentation of his whole life. There are so many things he doesn’t want to lose. His brother. Nat. The Avengers. Phil Coulson.

_James_.

He can’t lose James. He—he can’t, they were just starting to figure out something between them, and Clint was so _happy_ about it. He wants to sit on the couch with James and eat pizza and pet his dog and spend the night. Wants to wake up in his arms, feeling safe and secure. Wants to get to know him, wants to finish what they started in the apartment. He wants, he wants, he _wants_ , and they’re going to take it away—

“It’s going to take us some time,” one of the techs says to Rumlow. “We have to map his brain out.”

“How long is some time?”

“At least an hour. We have the blueprints from the Asset, we can start from there.” One of them reaches towards Clint with a couple of electrodes in hand. Without thinking, Clint snaps at his fingers. “Watch it!”

Rumlow rolls his eyes. “Biting? Really, Barton?”

“You tied my hands down,” Clint says. “It’s all I’ve got left.”

The tech reaches forward again, leaning into Clint’s space, and Clint slams his head forward. He times it perfectly, grinning at the _crunch_ of the tech’s nose. “Well. And that.”

“Jesus!” the tech yells, stumbling backwards, hand pressed to his face. Clint watches with a sick satisfaction as blood drips from between his fingers. “You little—”

Rumlow pulls out another syringe, and presses it against Clint’s neck in warning. “Barton,” he says, exasperated, like he’s correcting a small child. “Knock it off.”

“Fuck you,” Clint says, getting ready to spit at him. “If you think for one second I’m just gonna lay here and _let_ you do this—”

“Yeah, you are,” he says easily. “Because the way I see it, you’ve got two options. Option one, you accept that you lost, and you sit here and take this like a good boy. If you don’t, then we go to option two, and I drug you again. Not enough to knock you out, though. You’ll be awake, and watching, and completely fucking helpless. Won’t even be able to talk. You really want that to happen?”

Clint grits his teeth. “No.”

Rumlow pats his head. “Then shut up and play nice, Barton.” He steps away, tucking the syringe back in his pocket. “Don’t worry. In a couple hours, it’ll all be gone. And then all you have to do is what you’re told.”

“I’ve never done what I’m told,” Clint snaps at him. “If you really fucking think that’s gonna change because you’re wiping some memories—”

“We’re not just wiping memories,” Rumlow says. “We’re wiping _you_. Making you a blank slate, and then we’re gonna fill you up with whatever the fuck we want.” He flashes a dark grin. “By the time we’re through with you, you’ll kill Romanoff if we tell you to.”

“I will not,” Clint vows, but his voice is too shaky to make the promise real. “I won’t—you can’t _make_ me—”

“Yeah we can,” Rumlow says. “We can make you do anything.” He leans forward, carefully keeping out of head-butting range. “I heard the stories, you know. Of the things they did to the Asset. I even saw it, a couple times.” The grin gets wider, more cruel. “It looks damn good on its knees.”

Clint stares at him, struggling forgotten in favor of trying to process that information. “You’re sick,” he finally says. “You—all of you.”

Rumlow chuckles. “It certainly didn’t mind. Was good at it, too.”

Clint closes his eyes, trying to push away the mental image of James, blank-faced and empty, on his knees and surrounded by agents. “Fuck you,” he says. “I’m—just _fuck_ you, seriously.”

“Aw, sweetheart,” Rumlow says, patting him on the head again. “It’s okay. It’ll all be over soon.”

The techs start sticking things to his head again, then trail more down his chest. Clint forces himself to hold still, even though he desperately wants to fight. He thinks he could slip these restraints, given time, but Rumlow is watching him too closely, and Clint does not want to be drugged. He has no idea how he’s going to get out of this, but he knows his chances drop to nothing if he’s not able to move.

One of them rigs up an IV, jamming it hard into Clint’s hand. He flinches and sits up a bit. “What is that?”

“Nothing you need to be concerned about,” the tech says, pushing him back flat onto the board. “Won’t matter in a bit, anyway.”

“If it won’t matter, then you can tell me,” Clint counters, and she rolls her eyes. “Come on, I’m about to get my brain screwed six ways to Sunday, is it really that big a deal to talk me through what you’re doing?”

“It’s annoying,” she says.

“I’m an annoying person,” he informs her. “Seriously, that’s like...set in my DNA. I’ll make a terrible asset.”

“You’ll do fine,” she says absently, in a voice that’s probably supposed to be reassuring, but just comes across as ominous. Both in tone and in intent.

Clint thunks his head against the headrest, letting out a long breath. _Think, Barton. There’s always a way out. You just gotta find it._

He lets his gaze drift over the room, silently cataloguing every weapon and position. He sees a dozen plans immediately, but they’re all contingent on A) getting out of this fucking chair, and B) getting his hands on a good weapon, and C) a crap load of good luck. None of those seem very likely.

Still. He’s never been one to give up. So he keeps watching, and waiting, and tries to ignore that sinking sense of dread in his stomach, that nagging feeling that this might be the one time where there isn’t a way out.

* * *

An hour later, one of the techs claps her hands together and smiles broadly. “We’ve got it,” she says. “I think we’re ready for the initial burn.”

Clint keeps his face neutral, trying not to give anything away. He’s been steadily working his right wrist loose for the last hour in between reluctantly answering their questions, and he thinks he might be able to get it out if he gives one really good pull.

Rumlow glances up from his phone and steps a little closer. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says. “We’ve mapped out what we need to. We’ll do a broad wipe first, as a tester and if it works, we’ll focus more on the specific areas.” She points at the monitor, and Rumlow moves even closer, leaning over to see the screen.

Clint yanks his hand free and leans forward, closing his hand around Rumlow’s gun. He rips it free of the holster and aims it at him, pulling the trigger—

It doesn’t pull. The gun beeps in his hand, a sad little chirp, and a red light flickers by the sights. Clint stares dumbly at it for a moment, trying again and again to pull it. “What—”

“It’s biometrically encoded,” Rumlow says, watching with amusement. “It won’t fire for you.” He reaches out and plucks it from Clint’s hand. “Very new tech. Guess I’ll have to tell the R&D boys that it works just fine.”

“Oh,” Clint says, dropping his hand back down. “Uh. That’s...cool.”

It’s a stupid thing to say, but he doesn’t know what else _to_ say. That was it. That was his shot. He doesn’t have anything else planned. Every single one of his escape plans started with getting his hands on a gun, but if none of them are going to fire for him—

He scrabbles at the strap around his other wrist, but doesn’t get far. Rumlow grabs his wrist and re-secures it, fingers surprisingly gentle. “Easy,” he says, and Clint realizes he’s shaking hard enough to make the whole chair tremble. “I’ll give you a pass for that one. It was a good move. I should’ve been paying attention.”

“Rumlow,” Clint whispers, watching the strap tighten around his wrist. “Please.” He hates how the terror leaks into his voice, but he can’t help it. He couldn’t keep it out if he tried. “Please don’t do this, I don’t—”

“It’s okay to be scared,” Rumlow tells him, checking the rest of the straps before adding ones around his upper arms. “It’s not going to be fun. It’s going to hurt, a lot. But order only comes through pain, and this is just how things have to be.”

“That’s bullshit,” Clint says, his words shaking as much as the rest of him. “That’s—that’s fucking crap and you know it. You don’t have to do this at all. This is a choice—”

Rumlow slaps him. It doesn’t _hurt_ , but it kills the rest of his protest, the words dying in his throat. “That’s enough,” he says, and looks at the techs. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

They push him back on the board. The tech holds up a rubber bite guard. Clint glares at her, but she just shakes her head. “You’ll need it,” she says. “Trust me.”

“You will,” the other one says, pushing him flat onto the board. “The Asset cracked teeth. You don’t heal like it does.”

“He’s a person,” Clint says, looking between them. “His name is James Barnes, and my name is Clint Barton. We’re people. We’re not assets. We’re not _things_. ”

“You’re whatever we tell you to be,” Rumlow says. “Open your mouth.”

Clint reluctantly lets them put the guard in. It has a sharp, bitter taste to it, and it makes him gag a little bit. Rumlow pats his leg and steps back. “Good boy.”

“Okay,” the tech says. “Here we go.” She reaches into his ears and pulls out his aids, setting them on a nearby table, and the room goes silent.

Clint’s breathing too fast, his chest heaving as he sucks in air through his nose. It’s all running through his head again, all the things he doesn’t want to lose. He tries to fix them in his mind, tries to embed them in his memory, tries to dig his fingers in and not let go—

The halo starts to move, the smaller padded sections rotating until they’re against his head, the larger one resting over the left side of his face, blocking his vision there, and the right pad resting just on his cheekbone, settling onto his skin.

_James_ , he thinks desperately, the word an apology and a prayer and a hope all at once.

There is a hum of electricity, and a sparking along his face, and then—

Then there is nothing but whiteness burning through him, painful and sharp and _loud_ , like television static crackling through his mind, like touching a live wire, like someone’s trying to scrub everything out of his brain with a Brillo pad and he is _screaming_ , shredding his throat with it, screaming and screaming and screaming—

It stops.

The pads lift off his face, and he stares up at the ceiling, blinking tears out of his eyes. “Mmmpgh,” he says around the bite guard, and someone tugs it out of his mouth. A familiar face, although it takes him a second to place it. _Rumlow. His name is Rumlow._

Rumlow shoves one of his hearing aids back in and leans forward. “What’s your name?”

That takes a second to come up too, and his voice is a question when he offers it. “Clint?”

“Full name.”

“Clint...” He closes his eyes. “Barton. Clint Barton.”

“Who am I?”

“Asshole.”

Rumlow sighs. “Alright. Do it again.”

“No,” Clint protests, because it _hurt_ , and he doesn’t want to do that again, not ever. Except they’re not listening, and Rumlow shoves the guard back in his mouth. “No!”

The halo descends, and the pads settle on his face, and then the whiteness is back. It’s shredding him, ripping through his neurons, leaving blankness in its wake, a terrible blankness where he knows there should _be_ something, but there’s not, there’s just nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing

* * *

He comes back to life with a sharp slap, the sting of it forcing his eyes open. There is a face in front of him, and he thinks he should know it, but he doesn’t.

Something is shoved into one of his ears, and the muffled feeling there is replaced with sounds. He blinks a couple times, trying to look around.

The man snaps his fingers. “What’s your name?”

He doesn’t know that either. He just stares, eyes wide and head pounding, searching desperately in the blankness for something that he can’t find, something that’s just out of reach—

“I don’t know,” he says, and closes his eyes. “I—I don’t know.”

“Wow,” the man says. “I thought it would take more than a few burns.”

“We’ve come a _long_ way since the early days,” says another voice, sounding proud. “And his brain shouldn’t heal as quickly as the Asset’s did. Do we have a designation picked out? Now would be a good time to introduce it to him. Get him familiar with it.”

“Yeah,” the man says. “Uh...” He reaches out of sight, then snorts derisively. “Oh, wow. Really? God, that’s bad.” They meet eyes, and the man says, “Your name is Centurion.”

Centurion. He rolls the name around in his head, then says it out loud. It tastes...wrong, somehow. Like that’s not his name at all.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“I’m your handler,” the man says. “You can call me _sir_.” He looks to the side. “What’s left?”

“That was just the broad pattern,” the other voice says. “Just a basic reset. We need to do a few tests, see what he remembers.”

“Do that, then.” The handler looks at him. “Pierce is on his way. I want him ready to go.”

Another person comes into view. A woman. She holds up a tablet with a picture on it. “Do you recognize this person?”

Centurion stares at it, blinking slowly. He thinks he might—there’s something about the hair that seems familiar, red like blood, and the smile—

_“I’m not going to kill you, Natasha.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because I think you’re worth saving.”_

“Natasha,” he says slowly, the word thick in his mouth. “Right?”

She doesn’t confirm, just swipes to the next picture. “What does this mean?”

It’s an A, inside a circle, with an arrow through the crossbar. It’s familiar, and his heart aches when he sees it, although he doesn’t know why.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Answer the question,” she says. “What does it make you think of?”

He looks at it again, and suddenly sees something different—five people around a table in the remnants of a building, battered and bruised and bloody, but also triumphant. There’s a taste in the back of his mouth, like spices, like sauce, like chicken—

“Schwarma,” he says, and she looks mildly confused. Centurion flinches, unsure if that’s the right answer. He doesn’t want to be punished, doesn’t want the whiteness back.

“It’s not a punishment,” the handler says, and Centurion flinches again; he hadn’t realized he’d spoken that out loud. “It’s a gift. The Chair is a gift.”

“The Chair is a gift,” he repeats, but then there’s something else in his mind. A man, with blue eyes and brown hair and a smile that’s so familiar but also not.

_They did some shit. Brainwashing. Mind wipes. Used this machine to destroy my memories. Made me forget everything. Forget Steve._

“Who is Steve?” he asks, and everybody freezes. Centurion looks around, heart sinking. Mistake, mistake, that was a mistake—

“Jesus,” the handler says. “First the Asset, now this one. What’s so fucking special about Rogers?”

Rogers? Who is—

_“Time to go,” says an unfamiliar voice._

_“Go where?” Nat asks._

_“I’ll tell you on the way. Can you fly one of those jets?”_

_“I can,” he says, opening the door, and that’s when he sees Steve Rogers. Blue suit, silver star on his chest—it’s like he walked out of a fucking comic book, or off one of Coulson’s trading cards. Seventy years of history, covered in spandex. It’s ridiculous. He loves it instantly._

_Steve studies him, like he’s trying to see beyond what’s presented, then glances at Nat, asking a silent question. When she gives clearance, those blue eyes fix back on him. “Got a suit?”_

_He nods._

_“Then suit up.”_

“Steve Rogers,” he says. “Captain—Captain—”

There is more there, but he can’t make it come out, and after a moment, he gives up. The handler’s eyes are hard, and his mouth is in a thin line, and Centurion thinks—

_That’s not your name_ , a little voice in his mind says.

_That’s what they told me,_ he argues back. _And they know more than I do._

_It’s not you._

_Then who am I?_

_You’re C—_

“—consistent with emotional memory,” the woman is saying. “We expected this. The first pattern is just a broad reset. It wipes out the initial connections. But we have to go deeper for the rest of it. If we just left him like this, he’d eventually remember.”

Remember? What does he have to remember?

Centurion blinks. He’s got a headache coming on, a throbbing in his skull, like someone’s pounding at it with a sledgehammer. There’s something at the edge of his memory, just barely out of reach. Something important.

_Someone_ important.

“What are you doing now?” the handler asks.

“We’re mapping out major associations.” She holds up a picture of something. A bow and a quiver of arrows. It makes his heart ache to look at it, although he doesn’t know why. He waits for her to ask a question, but her eyes are focused on something he can’t see, and after a moment she nods. “Okay. Expected that.”

He looks around the room. _Bank vault_ , his mind supplies, although he’s not entirely sure what that’s supposed to mean. All he knows is that it’s too cold, and too bright, the lights around him reflecting off the metal of the deposit boxes set into the walls. He squints at them, the lines of light blurring into haziness, shaped like a star—

Something sharp stabs in his arm and he gasps a little at the shock of it, flinching away. “No, don’t—”

“Hey!” the handler snaps. “You speak when you’re spoken to, and that’s it.”

His tone is angry, and Centurion flinches at the sharp sound of it. “Sorry,” he says, although he’s not sure what he’s apologizing for. There’s a little part of him that thinks he shouldn’t be apologizing at all.

The handler smirks. “ _Sir_ ,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“Sorry, sir,” Centurion corrects, and he feels nauseated for doing so. The handler smirks wider, then gestures to the woman to continue.

_Stars_ , Centurion thinks, looking back up at the ceiling. There’s something important about stars. He can’t remember what. Why can’t he remember?

_Because they took it from you. They put you in this chair and they ripped it from your mind._

“Want it back,” he mutters.

“What?” the woman asks.

He shakes his head, not really listening. Stars. Stars. Someone talked him about stars, once. Someone with red hair and freckles and a troublesome smirk.

_“That’s the North Star, punk. We’re gonna follow that until we can’t anymore.”_

_“Why?”_

_“You got any better ideas?”_

_“No.”_

_“Then that’s what we’re doing. Don’t worry, chickenbutt. You got me. I won’t let anything happen to ya.” The smirk flashes across B—_

_B—_

_Barn—_

“Barney,” Centurion says.

The handler looks at him. Starts to ask a question, but as soon as his mouth opens, the room shakes, and there’s a concussive boom echoing above them.

“That’s not good,” the handler mutters, and pulls out a radio. “What’s going on up there?”

There’s no answer.

“Shit.” He pulls out a gun and points at Centurion. “Keep an eye on him.”

“He’s fine,” the woman says. “We’ll do one more burn and then he’ll be ready for transport.”

“See that he is.”

Centurion shakes his head, but he doesn’t think there’s anything he can do to stop it. They’re going to take it away again, take away Barney and the stars and whatever is left on the edge of his mind, the nagging sensation that there’s something _else_ —

“Okay,” the woman says as another boom shakes the vault. “Are we ready?”

“In a minute,” another voice says. “Just mapping out the last areas. We’ll have to do this again with more intensive testing.”

“That’s fine,” the woman says. “As long as he’s good for transport.” She looks down at Centurion. “You’re lucky, you know. The Asset required _so_ many resets. You’re going to be much easier to work with.”

“Lucky,” Centurion echoes, the sudden sensation of fur under his fingertips, and a wet tongue interrupting a kiss, and strong arms around him. “Oh—oh!” He sits up as much as he can, eyes going wide, mind spinning with stars and silver metal and a _name_ —

“Uh-oh,” the woman says. “Williams, you ready? We need to—”

A third boom rocks the vault, hard enough to make the lights shake, and they all glance up at the ceiling as dust falls to the ground.

“Crap,” the other voice says. “Let’s do this now, I’m worried about the power—”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, the bank vault goes dark. There’s a scrambled shouting of words, and then flashlights click on, offering thin beams of light as various people sweep them around the vault.

“Shit,” the woman says. “Okay. Change of plans. Let’s get him out of here. We’ll finish this at headquarters.” Her fingers pick at the restraints around his right arm, freeing the upper strap before reaching for the lower one. 

“Should we drug him?”

_No_ , Centurion thinks. _Don’t drug me, don’t, I need to get to J—_

“Yeah,” the woman says, pausing. “That would be smart. Let’s do that first. Someone bring a light over here.”

“Don’t,” Centurion says. “Please.”

“It’s okay.” She pats his arm. “I know you’re confused. But all you have to do is let this happen, okay? We’ll make it better soon.”

But he doesn’t _want_ to let it happen. His head hurts, and he’s so tired, and he’s got a name that he’s desperate to hold onto, and he knows as soon as they drug him, he’s going to lose it. “No, don’t—”

Gunfire breaks through the air, sharp and loud, followed by shouting and the crash of metal. Flashlight beams bounce off the wall, creating a dizzying array of lights that obscures more than it illuminates. One of them catches a flash of a silver arm, deadly and beautiful, brighter than anything else in the room. Centurion smiles before he even realizes it, leaning forward in the chair. He knows that arm. He knows that person. He _knows_.

“James,” he says, and the gunfire ceases suddenly, like that quiet word was enough to stop the world.

Then there’s a hand on his face, cool against his heated cheek, and a pair of lips pressing against his. It feels _right_ , and something else clicks into place in his mind. “You’re James,” he says again, pulling back. “Right?”

“Right,” James murmurs, skimming his hands over Centurion’s body, pulling out the IV and undoing the straps. “That’s right, sweetheart.”

“Who am I?”

James starts to answer, but then the lights come back to life, illuminating the scene around them. There’s bodies everywhere, and the air is thick with the scent of blood and fear. Centurion glances around, and distantly thinks that he should be afraid of the man in front of him, who just killed twelve people in the darkness without sustaining any injuries on his own. But he’s not afraid. Not at all. He feels _safe_.

“What did they tell you?” James asks. “Did they give you a name?”

“Centurion.” He shakes his head. “It’s not...it’s not right.”

“No, it’s not.” James cradles his face with both hands, blue eyes searching for something. “But you’re still in there. You can remember. They didn’t have enough time to take it.”

“I—” He stops, closing his eyes. Thinks about schwarma, and a dog, and finding stars in the sky. Thinks about family, and friends, and the shape of his name on someone’s lips—

“Hawkeye,” he says, but that’s not right either. It’s closer, though, the sense-memory of pulling a bowstring suddenly echoing through him. “But there’s more?”

“That’s your work name.” James pulls him upright, pulling Hawkeye’s arm over his shoulder. “You’ve got another one.”

“Too many names,” Hawkeye grumbles, and James laughs. “Head hurts.”

“Don’t worry about it for now,” James says. “It’ll come back, I promise. But we gotta get out of here. Natalia is running a distraction for us.”

“Natasha.” So he’d been right, then. “I know her.”

“Yep. She’s your best friend.”

That sounds right. “What are you?”

“Curious about that myself,” drawls another voice, and Hawkeye flinches as the handler steps into view from behind the further set of doors. James immediately raises his own gun, and the handler fires, a bullet sparking off the metal directly over Hawkeye’s head. “Drop it, Asset. That’s your only warning.” There’s blood dripping down his face, and one hand is pressed to his side, more blood leaking from a wound there. But his other hand is steady, arm extended, and gun pointed directly at Hawkeye. “Drop it, _now_. Kick it over here.”

James freezes, then unslings Hawkeye’s arm from his shoulder and steps in front of him, setting the gun on the floor, nudging it with his foot so it skitters across the floor, coming to a stop halfway between them. “Rumlow,” he says, voice cold. “I thought I killed you.”

“Thought wrong,” Rumlow says. “Good try, though.” He steps forward. “Answer his question, Asset. I’m curious. You his fuck-buddy? Boyfriend?”

“Fuck you,” James says. “It’s not any of your goddamn business what we are. And I’m not your Asset, not anymore.”

“You’re whatever we tell you to be,” Rumlow says, and Hawkeye stumbles a bit as a memory falls into place. He just _heard_ those words, not that long ago—

“He’s a person,” he says, and Rumlow’s eyes flick to him. “His name is James.”

“You gave me that speech already.” Rumlow smirks. “Remember the rest of it? It was very inspirational. Should’ve recorded it.”

James’s hand comes back, settling against Hawkeye’s hip. “Leave him alone,” he orders, ice dripping from every word. “He’s not yours either. You lost, Rumlow. We know about the base, and we know about your plan to take the Stone, and we’re not letting it happen.”

Rumlow’s eyes tighten a bit, the only visible sign of surprise. “Doesn’t matter,” he says after a moment. “Because I’ve got all the cards here. You’re gonna come with me, both of you.”

“Fat fucking chance,” Hawkeye says, and James glances at him. “I remember you. You’re an asshole. Not going anywhere with you.”

James snickers. “What he said.”

“Mmm.” Rumlow shakes his head. “Alright. We’ll do it the hard way.” He studies James for a moment, then says something in a different language. Russian, Hawkeye thinks, although he’s not sure how he knows that, or how he understands it.

James stiffens in front of him, hand clenching hard on Hawkeye’s hip. “Don’t,” he says, stumbling forward a few steps, and Rumlow just grins. “Rumlow—”

“ _Rusted_ ,” Rumlow says. “ _Furnace. Daybreak. Seventeen._ ” He keeps going, rolling down this list of seemingly unconnected words. Hawkeye watches with a sense of horror as James cringes at each one, his movements towards Rumlow becoming slower, more staggering, like he’s trying to walk into a hurricane-force wind.

“You have to—” he starts, but Rumlow aims the gun at him, and he stops. He doesn’t think Rumlow will kill him, but he doesn’t want to be shot, either. So he just watches, desperation burning through him, wondering if there’s something he can do to help—

“ _Freight car,_ ” Rumlow finishes, and James falls to his knees, chest heaving. He’s staring straight up at Rumlow, shoulders slumped, arms limp by his side.

“ _Ready to comply,_ ” he says in a low voice, and Hawkeye lets out a quiet noise of distress.

“James,” he says, stepping forward. “James, what—”

“Stay there,” Rumlow says, a triumphant grin on his face. “Asset. Go restrain him.”

“No!” Hawkeye yells, moving forward again, and Rumlow’s eyes flick over to him, automatically assessing the threat.

In that moment, James moves. He snaps his hand out to the side, reaching for the discarded gun on the floor. Rumlow’s gaze immediately moves back to him, his own gun coming up, but James is faster—

There’s a quick succession of shots, four or five in a row. Hawkeye watches them happen almost in slow motion, watches Rumlow’s eyes go wide in surprise and shock, watches as his body jerks backwards, the force of them knocking him over.

He’s dead before he hits the floor. Hawkeye stares down at his body, the blood pooling onto the marble floor, and finds himself at a total loss for words.

“Sorry,” James says, getting to his feet. “New brain. That shit doesn’t work anymore.” He cracks his back and turns to Hawkeye. “You okay?”

“What the fuck,” Hawkeye says, staring at him. “You just—how—what?”

“Trigger words.” James grins at him. “I was worried they weren’t fully out, but I guess that’s tested now.” He swaps the gun to his right hand and holds out the metal one to Hawkeye. “Coming?”

Hawkeye carefully walks over, looking down at Rumlow’s body. “We’re not your fucking assets,” he tells those sightless eyes. “We’re _people_.”

He suddenly remembers the rest of what he’d said to Rumlow, and a smile splits his face. “My name is Clint,” he says, looking up at James. “Clint Barton. Right?”

“Goddamn right,” James says, tugging him forward into a heated kiss. “Welcome back.”

Clint kisses him back, the taste of him more familiar than anything else. “Hi,” he murmurs into James’s mouth, looping his arms around James’s neck. “You came and got me.”

“I did,” James says. “I always will. No matter what.” 

There’s more footsteps on the stairs, and Clint turns to see a familiar red-headed woman and sharp-eyed man in a cape coming down. “We have to go...” the woman says, but the words trail off as she looks at Clint.

_Natasha_ , he thinks. This must be her.

Her eyes widen at the sight of him, mouth dropping open.

“I can _see_ you,” she says, sounding shocked at the thought.

Clint tilts his head. “What?”

James looks at him. “Oh,” he says, picking up Clint’s hand and holding it in the air. Like he’s examining it. “Yeah. Well, that explains why he was talking to you. I was a little distracted.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You were a ghost,” James says, like that’s supposed to mean something. To the others, he says, “They put him in the Chair. He’s gonna be scrambled for a little bit.”

“Oh,” Natasha says, sounding concerned. “Is he okay?”

“He’ll be fine. It’ll take a bit for the memories to come back. He knows his name, at least.” He looks at the man in the cape. “Can you help?”

“I’m Clint Barton,” Clint says to her. “They tried to call me Centurion.”

She snorts. “That’s terrible.”

The man in the red cape steps forward. “Hold still,” he says, reaching for Clint’s head. “This should be quick.”

Clint flinches backwards, stepping almost completely behind James. “No,” he says, unable to stop the terror from leaking into his voice. “I don’t—you can’t—”

“Hey.” James turns, putting himself between Cape Guy and Clint. “He’s a friend. He’s here to help.”

Clint shakes his head. “No more, _please_ —”

“I know,” James says, soothing and low. “But he can help with the memories. They’ll come back faster if you let him help.”

“It won’t be perfect,” Cape Guy says, sounding almost bored. “But it’ll help sort things out for now. We can do the rest later.”

Clint looks at James. “I don’t want it,” he whispers. “My head hurts.”

“I know,” James says again. “But this is another thing I need you to trust me on, okay?”

After a moment, Clint nods. He doesn’t really know what’s going on, but he knows James, already trusts him, and if James says it’s safe, then he’ll do it. “Okay,” he says, voice shaking as much as he is.

Natasha makes a small noise and steps forward. “I don’t like this,” she says.

“It won’t hurt him,” Cape Guy assures her. “They didn’t have him down there long enough to do anything drastic. Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.” He turns back to Clint. “Well?”

Clint nods. “Okay,” he says again, and moves from behind James, crossing the few feet of distance between them. “This won’t hurt?”

“Shouldn’t,” Cape Guy says. “James, you and Romanoff keep watch. This won’t take long, but once I start I can’t stop.”

“What happens if you stop?” James asks.

“His brain won’t like it,” Cape Guy says, and puts his hands on either side of Clint’s head.

“My brain won’t—“ Clint starts, because _that’s_ not really a good statement, but then there’s a sharp spike of pain in his head, intense enough to make his eyes water.

Memories slam into him like a tidal wave, mixing and blurring together in a kaleidoscope that makes him nauseated. He clenches his fists, barely aware of his own body. It’s just a sickening slide of colors, faces, half-heard sentences—

_“—really hard in the head—”_

_“—astral plane—”_

_“—to shoot you, James, it’s—”_

_“—take your brain and play—”_

_“—the hell are you—”_

Clint drops to his knees, pressing his hands to his ears. “Stop it,” he moans, curling up into himself. “I don’t— _stop_ it—”

“Hey,” says a soft voice. Then there’s small fingers wrapping around his wrists, pulling them away from his ears with a surprising strength. “Clint. Look at me.”

Clint looks up, blinking as Natasha’s green eyes meet his. “Nat,” he croaks, and something settles into place, like a puzzle piece, like a lock clicking open. “Natasha.”

“Hey,” she says again, and pulls him into a tight embrace. “Welcome back.”

He hugs her back, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her hair. “I love you,” he tells her, soft and sure.

“Love you too,” she murmurs, and kisses his cheek. “But right now, we need to move.”

“What’s Hydra doing?” James asks Cape Guy— _no, it’s Dr. Strange_. “Where are they?”

“Cat’s out of the bag,” Strange says. “They know we know. The rest of your friends are wrapping up things at the base, but we have to assume they’re going for the Sanctum next. They think the Time Stone is there.”

“But it’s not, right?” Clint asks.

“No, it’s with me. But there are other things in there that need protecting.”

“Okay,” Clint says, staggering to his feet. “Let’s go.”

“Clint,” James says, grabbing his arm. “You need to rest, you’ve been through—“

“Fights not over,” Clint says. “I’ll rest when it’s done. We gotta move.”

“You don’t even have a shirt!”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” He’s not actually sure about that, but as soon as he says it, he gets a sense memory of ripped fabric and exasperation, a faint echo of _how do you keep ripping your shirts, Clint?_

“You don’t have any weapons, either,” James points out.

Clint winces. “My bows—they’re in the Tower—“

Dr. Strange tosses something to James. “Take him there,” he orders. “Meet us at the Sanctum after. Romanoff, come with me.”

Nat hesitates for a moment, eyeing Clint with a concerned look in her eyes. James puts a hand on her elbow, mutters something in Russian that Clint doesn’t catch. After a moment, she nods at him, then moves closer to Strange.

Strange holds up one hand, makes a circle in the air with his other. A spinning circle of orange sparks appears, and through it, Clint can see a dark street, a building that looks vaguely familiar—

“What the hell,” he says, as Strange and Natasha disappear through it, the circle closing up around them. “I—what?” He turns to James, who still looks worried, although now there’s a hint of amusement in it. “Are you—can you do that?”

James grimaces. “I was learning. Guess he thinks I’ve learned enough.” He slides a large ring on two fingers of his right hand and closes his eyes. “Let me concentrate.”

Clint is brimming with questions, but he sits quietly, watching as James moves his other hand in a circle. It takes longer than Strange’s did, a couple attempts of fizzling sparks before a circle comes into being. But then Clint sees a room, a bed, the edge of what looks like a closet—

“Is that my room?” he asks, a memory slowly making itself known.

“Yeah,” James says, leading him through it. He looks pleased with himself, and once they’re through, dismisses the circle with a wave of his hand. “Never been able to do it that fast before.”

“Is that magic?” Clint rubs his eyebrows, something on the very edge of his mind. “I—you’re learning magic, right?”

“Making an attempt to, yeah.” James gestures around. “Get what you need. We gotta be quick.”

Clint looks around the room, echoes of memories moving into place. It makes him a little nauseated, really, but he pushes through it, pulling on a half-remembered suit— _Stark designed it, it’s more protective than regular clothes_ —and studying the bows on the wall before picking one— _collapsible recurve, this one’s your favorite._

“My head hurts,” he says to James as he slings a quiver on, skimming a finger over the arrows in it. “Feels...full.”

“It will for a bit,” James says. “You okay to fight?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really.” He sounds regretful. “Sorry. I wish we did.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t be sorry.” James reaches out, tugs him into a kiss. “You’ve had a rough time of it recently. I just want to take you somewhere safe, let you rest.” He smiles a little. “Make you a pizza without burning it.”

“There’ll be time later,” Clint says, although the idea of pizza sounds _fabulous_. “Let’s finish the fight first.”

“This fight never finishes,” James mutters, rubbing his eyebrows. “Fucking Hydra.” He drops his hand after a moment and shakes his head. “Alright. Let’s go.”

He starts making the circle again, orange sparks flying through the air. It takes him a couple attempts, his forehead creasing in concentration.

“Are we dating?” Clint suddenly asks.

“Kind of,” James says, the circle faltering for a moment. “We haven’t really talked about it. It’s only been a week.” He tries again, and the circle forms more coherently, a darkened street visible through it.

“Ah.” Clint grips his bow tighter. “We should.”

James smiles broadly. “Duly noted,” he says, and gestures to the circle. “We’ll talk about it after. Let’s go.”

“Sounds great,” Clint says, and follows him through it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot),


	13. chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dormammu,” Strange says again, and looks back at Pierce. “He’s using you, you know. Whatever he promised you, he’s lying.”
> 
> “He promised me life everlasting.” Pierce’s eyes are wild, and there’s a psychotic twist to his mouth. “He promised me a world of order. He promised me everything I wanted, if only I brought him that.” Pierce points at Strange’s chest, at the amulet concealing the Time Stone. “And you will give it to me.”

The circle takes them to a street outside a familiar looking building— _the Sanctum_ , Clint remembers. Strange is there, as is Nat, and other faces he recognizes. It takes him a moment to place their names properly, but as soon as he does, his whole soul seems to fill with happiness, and he can’t help but smile. “Hey, guys.”

“You’re back,” Tony says, looking astonished. “You—I can _see_ you.” He turns to Strange. “Am I magic now?”

“Pierce,” Clint says, suddenly remembering. “He did something—something with dark—”

“He channeled energy from the dark dimension,” Strange cuts in, studying Clint with that single-minded intensity of his. “I can see it around you still.”

Tony scowls. “Why didn’t you do that? I thought you said you needed all the spells—”

“Because it had a very high chance of killing him,” Strange sighs, like Tony is an idiot for not understanding that. “It’s dangerous, and stupid, and Pierce is lucky he got all of you out.” He shakes his head. “To be fully realized here _and_ split between the astral plane—you would’ve been in agony. You’re lucky.”

Clint snorts. “No one’s ever said that to me before,” he mutters, and Nat smirks a little bit. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m back now.” He looks around. “Where are Thor and Hulk?”

“Stayed at the base to clean up. Are you okay?” Steve asks, concern in his voice. “You look—”

“I feel like shit, my head hurts, and I’m really fucking hungry,” Clint interrupts. “Where’s Hydra? I want to kick some ass and get out of here. I need tacos.”

“Avengers,” says a familiar voice behind him, and Clint turns to see Alexander Pierce himself stepping through one of those portals, followed by what looks like half of the STRIKE teams, with Rollins at the head. Clint winces at the sight, exchanging a glance with Nat.

“SHIELD needs to be cleaned up,” he mutters to her, and she nods in agreement.

Steve’s jaw tightens. “Pierce,” he says, tone cool.

“Captain,” Pierce says, nodding at him. “Out of respect for you and your history of service, I’m going to give you one chance to back down.”

Clint snorts. “Buddy, if you know anything about his _history of service_ , you’d know that’s the last fucking thing he’d ever do.”

Pierce blinks, like he’s surprised to see Clint there. “You,” he says, and Clint waves at him. “What are you doing here?”

“Sightseeing,” Clint says. “What are _you_ doing here?”

Pierce rolls his eyes, then turns his attention back to Steve. “Give us the Time Stone.”

“You forgot the magic word,” Tony tells him, faceplate slamming down, the repulsors glowing as he raises them. “Also, no. That’s not happening.”

“There doesn’t have to be bloodshed,” Pierce says, eyes roving over the group of them. He pauses at James, a cold smile tugging at his mouth. “Asset. Good to see you again.”

“I’m not your Asset,” James says. His voice is steady, but Clint can see the slight shake to his hand as he aims his gun at Pierce. “You don’t own me anymore.”

Pierce just shakes his head in a condescending way, like James is a child throwing a tantrum. “We’ll see,” is all he says, then turns back to the rest of them. “The Time Stone. This is your last chance. We can all work together. Hydra just wants to bring order to the world.”

“You don’t know what you’re playing with,” Strange says, a furious expression on his face. “Forces beyond your control and understanding. You’re going to destroy the world, not bring _order_ to it.”

“Building a better world sometimes means tearing the old one down,” Pierce says. “This is going to happen. The only question is whether you’ll stand alongside me, or whether you get torn down in the process.”

“We’ll never stand alongside you,” Steve says, standing firm and tall in front of the rest of them. “We’re going to stop you.”

“So be it,” Pierce says, the smugness suddenly traded for grim seriousness. Then his face starts to change, purple and black spreading under his eyes like a bruise. A symbol appears on his forehead, a series of curved, intersecting lines that look evil just on their own, never mind the fact that they’re on a megalomaniac’s face.

“Dormammu,” Strange says grimly, and Wong nods. But Clint doesn’t get a chance to ask what the fuck a _Dormammu_ is, because a second later, the sky above them starts _dissolving_. Clint stares upwards as it scatters into pieces, all of them drifting up towards an enormous rip in the sky that slowly widens. It’s a strange kaleidoscope of otherworldly planets, and colors, and a darkness that terrifies Clint down to his bones.

And there’s a _face_ up there, a face of apocalyptic proportions, tremendous and evil. The eyes are swirling with purple—like the zombies—except these are narrowed in fury, the mouth twisted in a cold sneer. The skin is rippling, moving constantly, shifting to the outside in a psychedelic pattern. It takes everything Clint has not to run screaming in terror as soon as he gets a good look at it.

“The fuck is that?” he demands, pointing up at the sky.

“Dormammu,” Strange says again, and looks back at Pierce. “He’s using you, you know. Whatever he promised you, he’s lying.”

“He promised me life everlasting.” Pierce’s eyes are wild, and there’s a psychotic twist to his mouth. “He promised me a world of order. He promised me everything I wanted, if only I brought him that.” Pierce points at Strange’s chest, at the amulet concealing the Time Stone. “And you will give it to me.”

“I won’t,” Strange says, and he claps his hands twice, crosses his forearms over each other, and pulls his arms back like he’s going to punch something. Circular shields appear in front of his fists, little mandala-looking things bursting into being with a shower of orange sparks.

It looks pretty badass, honestly, and Clint nudges James. “Can you do that?”

“No,” James mutters, then looks thoughtful. “Well. Maybe.”

“Concentrate,” Wong tells him. “You can do it. You’ve progressed enough.”

“Do it,” Clint says. “It looks so cool.”

James shakes his head. “I’m holding a gun, Clint. Maybe next time.”

“Oh. Right.” Clint nocks an arrow, drawing back on the string. 

“Leave Pierce to me,” Strange says. “The rest of you...stay alive.”

“Last chance,” Pierce calls. “You can rise with the new world, or fall with the old one.”

“Man, shut the fuck up,” Clint says, and looses the arrow.

On Pierce’s hand, there’s a flash of purple light, brilliant and sudden. The arrow seems to bounce off it, falling harmlessly to the ground. He scowls in Clint’s direction, then gestures forward with the ring hand. “Keep the assets alive. The rest, you can kill.”

“With pleasure,” Rollins says, and they surge forward.

* * *

Clint’s no stranger to being outnumbered. Even with his scattered, semi-fractured memories, he knows this is how the fight always goes. The bad guys _always_ bring a bigger group to the party.

Still, it doesn’t stop him from feeling a bit annoyed as they start fighting. They’re the Avengers, sure, but eight of them against so many is just...not fair.

Then again, nothing else about the last six months has been very fair, so this is pretty much par for the course.

It’s been a _long_ time since he was in a fight, but years of muscle memory don’t vanish so easy, and he quickly falls back into the rhythm of it. Draw, aim, shoot. Draw, aim, shoot. Try not to get shot. Watch your teammates.

At some point, he comes face to face with Rollins, who knocks his bow aside and kicks him, sending him stumbling to the ground. “You’re not dead,” he says.

“I’m not.” Clint rolls back up and nocks another arrow, hitting the agent behind him. “Disappointed?”

“A bit.” Rollins throws a punch, and Clint ducks it. He’s too close for arrows, so Clint swings his bow like a staff. Rollins catches it on his forearm, wincing at the pain of it. “But I hear you’re gonna be the next murderbot, so I’ve got that to look forward to.”

“In your dreams,” Clint snarls, whipping the bow around and aiming for the other side of his head. Rollins blocks that too, shoving it to the side. His hands slam into Clint’s chest, knocking him backwards. He trips and falls sideways, barely managing to save himself from whacking his head on the concrete. _Oh yeah, more head trauma, that’s exactly what you need right now._

Rollins rips the bow from his hands and tosses it to the side. His other hand comes up with an alarmingly large syringe, full of clear liquid.

“Nope,” Clint says, rolling to the side. He scrambles back to his feet and lunges for the bow, barely closing his hand around the riser before Rollins grabs his leg, dropping him again. “Ow, you _asshole_ —”

Then Rollins is gone, lifted off him with one metal hand, and thrown backwards into the other Hydra agents, knocking them down like a bunch of bowling pins. James grabs Clint’s arm and hauls him to his feet, handing him the bow. “You okay?”

“That was hot,” Clint says, wiping blood from his mouth. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” James says. “You look good shooting that bow, by the way.”

Clint grins at him as he looses another arrow, taking out one of the agents struggling to his feet. “Thanks. You look good, uh...tossing people around.” He nocks another one, lets it go. “We need to take out Pierce.”

“Right,” James says, metal arm whacking an agent over the head. “That’s the only thing I can think of—” he ducks a knife “—that’ll work. If we can take out Pierce—”

“Cut off the head,” Clint agrees, trying not to think about the “two more will take its place” bullshit Hydra likes so much. James gives him a look like he’s thinking the same thing, but nods.

“We can do it,” he says, ducking another knife.

“If you distract him—” Clint shoves one backwards, slamming him in the head with his bow “—then I can get him with an arrow—”

“You missed last time—”

“Fuck you, I never miss—” Clint takes out another one. “He saw it coming, it would’ve hit him if he wasn’t fucking magic.”

“Fine.” James grins at him, a little wild and savage, and Clint suddenly has an urge to kiss him. “We can do it—”

Something hits him in the chest, hard and sudden, and he goes flying backwards. “James!” Clint yells, but he doesn’t get a chance to check on him before more agents swarm closer, demanding his attention.

He finds himself crouched next to Nat a few minutes later, panting and puffing. “This sucks,” he says, shooting another arrow before ducking back down behind the car they’re using as cover.

“Just like Budapest,” she says, grinning at him.

Clint snorts. “Seriously, you and I remember Budapest very differently.” He looks around, finally getting a glimpse of James, who’s back upright and punching someone in the face. “We need to take out Pierce—”

“He’s wearing something on his hand,” she says. “A ring. It gets brighter whenever he uses magic. He keeps deflecting bullets. I can’t get a good shot at him.”

“Yeah, some kinda ring. He used it to bring me back, said it helps him channel dimensional energy.” He shoots another arrow. “So we need to get it off his hand, _then_ take him out?”

“Yes.”

Clint studies Pierce for a moment. “I got an idea,” he says.

“A good one?”

“Probably not.” He jumps over the car, firing two arrows off as he does so, and hurries over to James. “I have an idea.” He grabs James, yanking him back into an alley just as one of the agents aims at him.

“A good one?” James asks, leaning around the corner and firing back.

“Why does everyone—no, probably not.” Clint glances up at the face in the sky. He shudders again and focuses on James. “There’s a ring on his hand. We need to get it off him before we can shoot him.”

James nods. “Okay.”

“Can you drop me on him?”

“What?”

“From above.”

“ _What?_ ”

“The circle things. Drop me on him.”

“I can’t—”

“You got any other ideas? He’s gonna see a direct attack.” Clint fires an arrow. “Can you do that?”

“I—” James pauses. “I don’t know, Clint, that sounds really—”

“I can do it,” Clint says. “I can, will you please just trust me?”

“I do trust you. I just also want you to stay _alive_.”

Clint grins at him. “I’ll be fine,” he says. “Come on, this’ll work.” _Probably_.

James looks worried. “Maybe we should get Wong or Strange, I’m not good—”

“There’s no time!” Clint shoots again, then slings his bow over his back. “You got this, man. I trust you. I’ll get it off him, you shoot the bastard, and then we go get a celebratory dinner. Waffles or something.”

James laughs. “What is it with you and waffles?”

“I—” Clint blinks, then snorts as the memory suddenly pops up. “I don’t know, man. Drop me on Pierce, we’ll talk about it later.”

“Fine,” James says, and holds up his hands. The circle appears on the ground this time, Pierce clearly visible through it, and Clint flashes a thumbs-up before jumping in.

He pretty much body-slams Pierce to the ground, which hurts like a _bitch_. But judging from the sound Pierce makes, it doesn’t feel too good for him either, so he considers it a win.

“Get off,” Pierce growls, twisting underneath him.

“In a sec,” Clint says, grabbing his wrist. He twists it, fingers scrabbling at the ring, and pulls _hard_. “I need this real quick.”

Pierce struggles, but Clint’s got him in enough of a lock that he manages to pull the ring off before Pierce can yank his hand back. He closes his hand around it and rolls to his feet, only to immediately have his own arms yanked behind his back. “The fuck—”

“Hold still, you little fucker,” Rollins hisses in his ear as Clint twists in his grasp. “I’m _sick_ of you and—”

“You’ll pay for that,” Pierce says, getting to his feet, anger written all over his face. “Sedate him, and finish the rest. I’ll take care of Strange.” He holds out his hand, and Clint clenches his fist around the ring.

“Oh for fucks sake,” Rollins snarls. “Open your hand or I’ll break your damn arm.”

Clint manages to kick him in the knee. It’s enough for Rollins to loosen his hold a little bit, and Clint twists away. His brief moment of triumph lasts long enough for him to run right into Pierce, who wastes no time in shooting him in the arm.

“Fuck!” Clint yells, stumbling, and he drops to a knee. “Fucking—”

He clenches the ring tighter and glares up at Pierce, who’s pointing the gun at his head. “I _was_ hoping to keep you,” he says, eyes narrowed. “But I think, given the amount of trouble you’re causing, we’ll just take the Asset and—”

And what, Clint never finds out, because a moment later, Pierce crumples to the ground, a neat bullet hole in his head. A second later, Rollins is down. The rest of the agents scatter, and Clint looks up to see James stepping forward, rifle raised and face stone cold. “Not taking me anywhere,” he says to Pierce’s body. “Ever again.” Then he looks down at Clint. “You’re bleeding.”

“He shot me,” Clint says, and he holds the ring up. “Got it, though.”

“I saw.” James reaches down and pulls him to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get you some help.”

* * *

Things move quickly after that. With Pierce and Rollins down, most of the agents seem to lose steam when faced with the Hulk, and a fair amount end up backing down. Various military outfits make an appearance, along with the police, and Clint watches as Steve and Tony sweet-talk their way out of trouble.

Strange and Wong disappear for a bit, and a few minutes later, the face in the sky starts to vanish as well, the sky slowly returning to normal.

“What did you do?” Clint asks when they come back, gesturing up at the sky.

Strange offers a mysterious smile. “Magic, and a bargain.”

“Informative,” Clint says dryly, and hands him Pierce’s ring. “Merry Christmas.”

James snorts. “Come here,” he says, tugging Clint over to the Sanctum steps. “Sit down before you fall down.”

Natasha borrows some supplies from an ambulance and takes care of his arm— _through and through, nothing vital, you’ll be fine_ —before sitting on his other side. She doesn’t say much, just keeps touching him, running her fingers over his skin as if to reassure herself that he’s really there. He catches her hand once and smiles at her, squeezing her fingers, then lets her go back to it.

On his other side, James is staring at Pierce’s body. It’s covered now, but there’s still a dark expression on James’s face, like he wants to bring Pierce back to life just to kill him again.

“You okay?” Clint asks, putting a hand on his leg.

“It was too fast,” is all James says, and slides his fingers around Clint’s.

Clint nods, because he understands that all too well. “At least they’re dead,” he says. “That’s the important thing.”

“ _These_ ones are dead.” James gestures to the bodies on the ground. “Hydra is like a weed. It grows everywhere.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Clint murmurs, thinking about SHIELD. He glances at Nat, and can tell she’s thinking the same thing. “We’ll keep fighting.”

James starts to say something else, but then Steve comes over, followed by Tony, Bruce, and Thor. Clint waves at the latter two, both of whom look delighted to see him back and in one solid piece.

“Long story short,” Steve says, leaning on the railing, “Strange is going to take care of the clean-up. There’s magic involved. I didn’t ask more. The military wants to bring SHIELD into it, I told them not until we can talk with Fury. That probably won’t last long, so I’m headed to see him now. Anyone wanna come with?”

Clint does, but James’s face goes still at the words, and he shakes his head. “I’ll pass,” he says. “You all can go.” He looks at Steve. “Keep my name out of it, please? If you can. As much as you can.”

Steve nods. “I’ll do my best.”

“I’m staying with you,” Clint says to James, squeezing his hand. “Actually, I’m _really_ fucking hungry. If you wanted to go get something to eat.”

James nods gratefully, and Clint gets to his feet, tugging him up too. “Call me if you need me,” he says to Steve, who looks like he’s about to protest. “I haven’t eaten in six months. I need all of the food, and I need it immediately. You can tell Fury I’m back.”

He looks down at Natasha. “I’ll get things started,” she says, getting up and patting his arm. “Catch you up when you’re ready.”

“Be careful,” he murmurs.

She smiles. “I’m always careful.”

Clint gives her a quick hug, then looks at the street with its various array of bodies and people scattered around, none of whom look very happy about being called out in the middle of the night to help clean up another Avengers mess. “Uh...”

“We’ll go through the Sanctum,” James says. “Out the back door. I need to cover this up, anyway.” He wiggles his metal fingers.

“What happened to your fancy watch thing?”

“Lost it when I was coming to get you. It’s fine, I’ll get Strange to make another one.” James tilts his head at the doors. “Come on. I owe you some waffles.”

“Yay,” Clint says happily, and follows James into the Sanctum.

* * *

They end up finding some little twenty-four hour diner not too far from the Sanctum, and Clint orders an obscene amount of food. James raises an eyebrow, but declines to comment as soon as Clint scowls at him.

“Six months,” Clint says, pointing a finger at him as he clutches a coffee cup with the other hand. “I haven’t eaten in six months.”

“You didn’t _need_ to.”

“Doesn’t mean I didn’t want to. You know how much I missed eating?” He pats James’s gloved hand. “I’ll share. I’m nice like that.”

“Charming,” James says, but he’s smiling.

Clint almost cries when everything shows up. It’s the best thing he’s ever tasted in his life, and just the simple act of _eating_ is something he’s never going to take for granted again.

“So,” he says, when he takes a moment to breathe. He points his fork at James. “Are we dating?”

James snorts. “You want to?”

“Yeah.” Clint grins at him. “You saved my life, you have a badass metal arm, you’re hot as hell, and you can do magic. I’d be an absolute idiot to turn you down.” He shrugs. “I mean, I am an absolute idiot. But I like you a lot, and if you’re willing to have me around—”

“I love having you around,” James says immediately.

“Cool,” Clint says, and takes another bite. “Gotta warn you now, though—I’m really just using you to get to your dog.”

James laughs. “Good to know,” he says, and pulls out his phone. “That reminds me, I should probably text my neighbor, make sure Lucky’s doing okay.”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Clint says. “We can go over there, if you want.”

“Don’t you need to get back to your friends?”

Clint sighs. “Mm. Probably.” He thinks about the sheer amount of clean-up they’re going to need to do, and rubs his eyebrows. “Fucking Hydra.”

“Fucking Hydra,” James agrees. “Well. They went six months without you, they can at least wait until you finish eating.”

Except before he finishes eating, a shadow appears over their table, and Clint looks up to see two familiar figures in tracksuits glowering down at them. “What the hell,” he says, setting his fork down again. “Who invited these fuckers?”

“Bro,” says one. “This doesn’t concern you, bro.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “Listen, _bro_ , I have had a hell of a day, and I really just want to—”

James holds up a hand. “Look,” he says, turning to them. “You guys see all the commotion a couple streets over?”

“We see it, bro. We don’t care.”

“Well, you should,” James says, his voice turning cold. “Because that was me, and my boyfriend here, and the other Avengers. Know what we were doing?”

The bros look at each other, then down at James.

“We were taking out Hydra,” James continues. “Those guys that were paying you to track me down? We just destroyed them and half their organization.” He gets to his feet, hand closing around a knife. “I’ve left you alone so far because honestly, you’ve been annoying more than anything. But that’s going to change, and it’s going to change _now_.”

“Bro,” one of them says, and James moves fast. He shoves one of them hard, sending him flying into the jukebox on the far side of the room. The other one he steps behind, twisting an arm behind his back and slamming his head into the table, right into a plate of pancakes.

“Aw, pancakes, no,” Clint says sadly.

“I’ll get you more,” James promises, then holds a knife to the guy’s throat. “You’re leaving me alone from now on,” he says. “Me and my neighbors. Tell Ivan he’s selling the building to me. Everything I’ve paid him already should be more than enough. Next time I see any of you assholes around, you’re going to get a hell of a lot more than a face-full of pancakes. Do I make myself clear?”

“Gonna kill you, bro,” the guy snarls, but he’s not very intimidating with his hair full of syrup. “Gonna kill you—”

“Shut the fuck up,” James says, pressing the knife harder against his throat. “It’s a yes or no question. Did I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” the bro hisses out, and James drags him upright before shoving him into his friend who’s stumbling back over.

“Great,” he says. “Both of you, get out of here. I don’t want to see either of you ever again.”

Both of them hurry out the door, mumbling in Russian to each other. James goes over to straighten the jukebox again, then comes back and sits down.

“Sorry,” he says to the waitress, who’s staring at him with wide eyes. He pulls a wallet out of his jacket pocket and opens it, then hands her everything inside. “That should cover the damages.”

Clint gestures to the wallet. “Did you steal that?”

James examines the drivers license. “What, you gonna scold me?”

“Nah. Not if you get me more pancakes.”

“Deal,” James says, and waves the waitress over.

* * *

James declines to accompany him back to the Tower. Clint offers, but he just shakes his head and says, “I’d rather be kept out of it, if you don’t need me.”

“Course I need you,” Clint says. “But I understand. Quiet life and all.”

“You can call me if you need,” James says, then pauses. “No, you can’t. You don’t have a phone.”

“I do, actually. But I think it’s in my room.”

James grabs a pen from the plastic tray with the bill on it, and reaches out. “We’ll go old-school, then,” he says, scrawling some numbers on Clint’s arm. “Text me when you get there, sweetheart.”

Clint snickers and pulls his arm back. “Classy,” he says. “I like it.”

“If you need help—”

“I’ll call you,” Clint assures him, and James relaxes a little. “I promise.”

They part ways outside the diner, and Clint catches a taxi back to the Tower. Bruce is the only one there when he gets upstairs. He looks up, a delighted smile spilling across his face. “Hey,” he says, getting up. “It’s so good to see you, you have _no_ idea.”

“I kinda do,” Clint says, and Bruce’s face gets a little sheepish before he pulls Clint into a hug. “But I know what you mean. It’s good to see you, Bruce.”

“I missed you,” Bruce says, face in Clint’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

“Thanks.” Clint awkwardly pats him on the back. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Still at SHIELD.” Bruce pulls back, resuming his seat on the couch. “I imagine they’ll be there a while. Lots of things to clean up. Thor got called away to Asgard, but he said to tell you hello, and that he can’t wait to drink with you again, or something like that.”

Clint nods. “Why didn’t you go with them?”

“SHIELD and I don’t really get along,” Bruce sighs. “I was gonna make food for everyone when they get back. Wanna join me?”

“I just ate,” Clint says. “But yeah, I can help.” He gets up, following Bruce into the kitchen. “Uh. Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“You and Nat...” Clint trails off, raising an eyebrow. “Are you...together?”

Bruce shrugs. “Not really,” he says. “We tried once, but it didn’t work out. She just wanted someone to be close to, I think, and she was missing you pretty hard. I’m just being a friend more than anything.” He smiles slyly. “Should I brace myself for the threats now?”

“Hell no,” Clint says. “Nat can take care of herself just fine. I just want to make sure she’s happy. And she looked happy, when she was with you.” He shrugs. “That’s important to me.”

“I’m just being a friend,” Bruce says again. “If something else beyond that happens, I’ll let you know. Is that acceptable?”

“Sounds good,” Clint says, and taps his fingers on the counter. “What’re we making?”

* * *

They end up ordering pizza, mostly because Bruce and Clint scour the cabinets and can’t find anything that goes together. Clint’s decent at cooking, and so is Bruce, but neither of them have any idea what to do with cereal, a jar of peanut butter, a molding loaf of bread, and an obscene amount of spinach.

“Seriously,” Clint says, as Bruce sets the phone down. “Have none of you been cooking?”

“Not in the last few weeks. We’ve been busy.”

The rest of the team shows up at the same time as the pizza, and they all fall gratefully into chairs around the table. Clint takes his normal seat, a sense of joy filling him as he looks around, watching his teammates eat and talk with each other. It’s so _normal_ , everything he’s been missing for the past six months, and he loves every second of it.

He catches Steve afterwards, pulling him aside from the rest of them. “Look,” he says quietly. “What happened to me—it sucked. It sucked a lot. But I don’t want you blaming yourself, because it wasn’t your fault. It was a weird, freak accident, and _none_ of you could’ve gotten to me in time.”

“Who said I was blaming myself?” Steve asks, a wry smile on his face.

“Buddy, your guilt complex is visible from space,” Clint says, and Steve snickers. “And I heard you, that first night. You told Nat it was your fault. I’m telling you it wasn’t. None of you get to blame yourselves. I’m back, I’m okay, and I got a boyfriend and a dog out of the deal.” He nudges Steve. “And you got to see James again.”

Steve nods. “Guess that’s true.”

“So it’s not your fault,” Clint says. “Alright? I don’t blame you. I never have, not even when I was...a ghost.”

Steve’s shoulders relax a little bit. “Thank you,” he says, and pulls Clint into a hug. “I appreciate hearing that.”

“Anytime,” Clint says, and they go to rejoin the rest of the group.

* * *

Nat finds him later, when everyone else has dispersed to do various things. Clint’s texting James, who’s sending him pictures of Lucky. He looks up when she sits down on the couch next to him. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” he says, setting the phone down. “You okay?”

She nods at the screen. “He make you happy?”

“Very happy.”

“Good.” She shifts a little, then says, “Fury wants to see you in the morning.”

“I’m sure he does.” Clint rubs his eyes. “He can wait.”

She nods, tracing her fingers over his arm, as if reassuring herself that he’s still there. Her face betrays nothing, but he knows her better than he knows himself, can read the tension in her shoulders, and the possessive way she’s touching him.

“It wasn’t your fault either,” he tells her softly. “Nat.”

“I should’ve been there,” she says, and he shakes his head.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says again, more fiercely this time. “I just had this conversation with Steve, you know. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. None of you could’ve gotten to me in time. I’m back, I’m alive, and I’m okay.” He takes her hand and covers it in both of his. “Gonna take more than a freaky ray gun and a bunch of Nazis to get rid of me, Tasha. You’re stuck with me for good.”

“Lucky me,” she says dryly, but she’s smirking a little, and he squeezes her fingers. “I missed you, and your stupid jokes.”

“I missed eating your leftovers,” he says, and she shoves his shoulder. “And I missed you, I guess. Just a little.”

He grins at her, and she’s smiling back, and the world suddenly feels a lot more balanced, like something missing was just restored. Clint likes his team, he’s got something special with James, but this—what he and Nat have—has been his foundation for a long, long time. He loves her more than just about anything else in the world, and he’s so glad to have her by his side again.

“You ever pull something like this again,” she says, eyeing him, “I’m going to kill you myself. Weapons optional.”

“Don’t doubt it,” Clint says, and he pats her hand. “So. Wanna watch some _Dog Cops?_ ”

“Absolutely not,” she mutters, but she can’t disguise the fondness in her voice, and he smiles.

“No _Dog Cops_ ,” says a third voice, and Clint turns to see a tired-looking Steve walk into the lounge. “Fury needs us. All of us. We gotta do some damage control, starting now.”

“Awesome,” Clint sighs. “Never a break, is there?”

“You had six months of a break,” she says, a hint of laughter in her voice. “Come on, lazy boy. There’s work to be done.”

“Fine,” he mock-grumbles, and gets up, pulling Nat with him. “Let’s go to work, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot)
> 
> We decided to make the epilogue another chapter, so you get one more after this! Thanks for following along!


	14. chapter 14 (epilogue)

** Two Weeks Later: **

Clint stumbles through the door of James’s apartment, eyes already half closed. He drops his phone on the counter next to a pile of papers and shuffles to the couch, promptly flopping on top of James with an exhausted, “Hi.”

“Hi,” James says, patting his shoulder. “Long day?”

“Long week,” Clint mumbles, scrunching his face up as Lucky tries to lick his nose. “Get off me, you little monster.”

“He missed you. I missed you.”

“Missed you too.” Clint offers him a tired smile, then tugs him down into a kiss. “Do you know how much paperwork it takes to undo being dead? So much. But apparently I get six months of back-pay, so that’s cool.” He picks his head up, looking at the oven. “Is that pizza?”

“Yes.”

“Best boyfriend ever.” He squints. “Are there two?”

“Yes.”

“Definitely best boyfriend.” Clint kisses him again. “Sorry I haven’t been around much. All the stuff going on, with SHIELD and everything, and then Strange wanted to see how my memories were doing—” He breaks off, rubbing his eyes. “Also Pierce dying kinda screwed some things up. We know he was Hydra, but to the rest of the world he was just a senator, and—”

“It was him or you,” James says firmly. “I’m not apologizing for that.”

“I don’t want you to. I’m glad you picked me. But it’s just another thing we have to clean up.” He lets out a long breath. “Point being, I’m sorry I haven’t been around.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” James murmurs. “I know you’ve got a lot going on. There was a lot that happened in the last week.”

“Just feel like I haven’t seen you.”

“We have time,” James says simply, threading their fingers together. “Plenty of it. It’s only been a few weeks, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” Clint says.

James gently scratches through his hair. “You look tired.”

“I’m dead,” Clint admits, then winces at his phrasing. “Well. Not really. I’m very tired. I’d like to eat everything in this place and then sleep for a week.”

“A whole week, huh?”

“I’m catching up on six months, give me a break.” Clint waves at the counter. “That from Ivan?”

“Yeah. Dropped it off today. It’s all legal now. Building is officially mine.”

Clint flashes a thumbs up. “You ever gonna tell me where you got all your money from?”

“Someday.” James smiles at him. “Gotta maintain some mystery and all. Can’t have you knowing all my secrets.”

“Mmm.” Clint pats Lucky’s head, then brightens as the oven beeps. “Pizza!”

“Pizza,” James agrees. “Move, I’ll bring it to you.”

“Mmm,” Clint says, making absolutely no effort to move. “Use magic.”

James laughs. “I’m not _that_ advanced. Let me up, darlin’.”

“You’re _so_ old,” Clint tells him, but he reluctantly moves, letting James slide him to the side as he gets up. As soon as he does, Lucky jumps onto the couch, curling up where James was just sitting.

James sighs at him. “Couch thief,” he says, patting Lucky’s head. “Lucky you’re cute.”

Lucky barks at his name, then settles around Clint, licking his ear. Clint grumbles at him even as he pats the soft yellow fur. “I want all of the pizza,” he calls to James.

“We’ll start with half,” James says, bringing over a plate. “See how you do.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“It can be?”

Clint grins and sits up enough to take the plate. “Thank you,” he says, picking up a piece. “Oh, Strange and Tony figured out that ray gun thing, by the way. I tried to get the specifics, but then my eyes kinda glazed over and I quit listening after that. Long story short, it shouldn’t be disintegrating anyone else.”

James nods. “Nice. How’s Natasha?”

“She’s in D.C. with Fury and Bruce. They’re chasing down a few leads. Finding some Hydra plants.” Clint rubs his eyebrows, suddenly feeling tired again. “There’s so _many_ of them, James.”

“I know,” James murmurs, sitting on his other side. He wraps an arm around Clint. “I’m sorry.”

“I just—” Clint waves a slice of pizza. “Everything we did. All the missions. How many of them were for Hydra? Was any of it—”

“You’re gonna drive yourself crazy, doing that,” James tells him, pulling him in tighter. “Did you help people? On those missions? I mean you, personally. Did you save people?”

“Lots of ‘em.”

“Then focus on that,” James says, kissing his forehead. “I promise if you keep thinking about all the what-ifs, you’re gonna lose it. You did good stuff out there with the information you had. And now you _know_ , so you can help make it right.” He huffs out a quiet laugh. “Trust me. I know what it’s like. To look back at your life and wonder if it was worth it.”

“Guess you would,” Clint says, suddenly feeling like an asshole. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

James shoves a slice of pizza in his mouth, effectively shutting him up. “No apologies,” he says. “I’m making a point. Eat your pizza and let me comfort you.”

“Fine,” Clint says, elbowing him. James elbows him back, and from there it devolves into a little wrestling match. Clint drops his pizza, but considering he ends up on the floor with James kissing him, he considers it a win anyway.

“Your dog’s eating our dinner,” Clint says against his mouth.

“Good,” James murmurs, sliding his hands under Clint’s shirt. “Keep him distracted.”

Clint grins. “Distracted for what?”

“Gonna take you to bed.” James pulls Clint’s shirt off, tossing it to the side. “Protests?”

“God, no.”

James grins back at him, then gets up, hauling him to his feet. “Good,” he says. “Oven’s off, landline’s off the hook, my phone is off, and if you even _think_ about answering yours—”

“I would never,” Clint assures him. “They want me, they’re gonna have to come pull me off you, I’ve been waiting forever for this.”

“Yeah? You were thinking about me?”

“All the damn time,” Clint says, pulling James’s shirt up as they stumble backwards towards the stairs.

James’s face just _lights_ up, like he’s been waiting to hear those words, and it’s so perfect that for a moment Clint can hardly stand it. “Glad to hear it,” is all he says, smile wide and brilliant. Then he picks Clint up like he’s nothing, carrying him up the stairs before dumping him on the bed.

“That was _super_ hot,” Clint breathes, propping up on his elbows. “You—”

“Look really good throwing people around, I know.” James laughs and reaches for Clint’s belt. “You got too many clothes on, honey.”

“Could say the same thing about you,” Clint says, lifting his hips as James tugs his pants down. “Gonna do something about it?”

“In a moment,” James says, running his eyes all over Clint with an appreciative gaze. “Just gonna take care of you first, how’s that sound?”

“Sounds nice,” Clint says, reaching up for him.

This is what he missed most, hanging out as a ghost. Coffee, sure, and food, and sleeping, and being an Avenger. But this—just being able to touch someone—he’s never taking this for granted again. Never dismissing the need for it. He hadn’t realized how much he depended on physical contact until it was taken from him, ripped away without a second thought.

And sure, he could touch James before he came back. But it wasn’t the same. There was always a sense of missing something, of something being not quite right. Now it’s real, and James is a solid presence, and so is Clint, and—

“You’re thinking too much,” James says, propping up on his elbows, a slight smirk on his face. “Am I boring you?”

“No,” Clint tells him, running his hand up James’s arm. “I’m just happy to be here.”

Words have never really been his strong suit—he’s always been more of a _show_ than _tell_ kind of guy—but he apparently hits the mark for the second time, because James lights up again, happiness written all over him. “Me too,” he says simply, and leans down to kiss him.

They don’t talk much, after that, just murmured questions and nodded consent, and a lot of colorful cursing on Clint’s part. James just watches with a grin as he takes Clint apart piece by piece, fingers and hands and mouth just adding to the haze in Clint’s mind.

“You’re pretty like this,” he murmurs as he _finally_ slides a condom on and eases in, making Clint grab at his shoulders, eyes closing at the feeling.

“Pretty always,” Clint counters, fingers digging into James’s back.

“That too,” James agrees, grabbing one of Clint’s legs, pushing it up towards his chest. “But especially like this.”

“Stop saying nice things and _fuck_ me.” Clint reaches up, pulls him down into a kiss. “Now.”

James snickers. “I can do both.”

“Yeah? Prove it.”

“Fine,” He snaps his hips forward, and Clint’s breath catches in a moan. “Like that?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Clint gasps, fingers tightening again. “God, _James_ —”

James mutters something and does it again, his own eyes closing. “I got you, sweetheart,” he says, and kisses Clint again, a slow thing, full of more tenderness than Clint’s ever felt in his life. “You’re amazing, _god_ —”

Clint takes one of his hands, winding their fingers together, and presses his own back into the bed. “Hold me,” he says, and James just nods, hand tightening around Clint’s as he starts moving, just slow enough to be devastatingly perfect.

Afterwards, they disentangle themselves and clean up, then go back downstairs. Clint gets the rest of the pizza from the counter and they watch scary movies while curled up together on James’s couch.

Clint traces his fingers over James’s arm, listening to Lucky gently snoring on his other side. Being a ghost sucked, more than anything he’s ever experienced in his entire fucking life. But to come out of it on the other side and have _this_ —James, and Lucky, and all of his friends knowing he’s alive and well—

Well. It almost makes the whole thing worth it.

Clint leans further into him, stretching his legs out on the couch. He knows there’s gonna be more long days, more long weeks. They’re still working on cleaning Hydra out of SHIELD, which is a process and a half. Even now, sitting here, Clint can feel the clock ticking down, his phone like a little bomb on the kitchen counter. He’d traded in half a dozen favors to come here tonight, just to scrape together a few hours with James, and he knows that it might come back to get him later.

But that’s in the future. Right now he has pizza, and a dog, and someone who cares about him holding him, and it’s more than he’s had in a long few months. So he’ll take it, no matter what’s coming down the pipeline. Because if he’s learned anything the past few months, he’s learned life is grossly unfair, and if he’s got something good, he needs to hold onto it with both hands.

So he does just that, winding his fingers around James’s and holding on tightly. James chuckles quietly. “Movie scaring you?”

“Nah,” Clint tells him. “I’m just holding onto you. You’re something good, you know.”

James kisses the top of his head. “Glad to hear it,” he says, a smile in his voice and he squeezes Clint’s hands back. “So are you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First WHBB, in the bag! Thanks as always for your love and support, I know I have not been great about replying to comments recently but I promise I read and treasure them. This wouldn't be half as fun without you all. <3
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Please give some love to [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/), who listened to me whine about that last action scene for literal months, and to [flowerparrish](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/flowerparrish) for zir help in the early chapters. This story wouldn't be the same without your help, so a million thanks and love to both of you. Y'all are the best.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * A [Restricted Work] by [CountessOfLovelace (Original_Cypher)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Original_Cypher/pseuds/CountessOfLovelace) Log in to view. 
  * [[Podfic of] ghost in the machine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27858538) by [Flowerparrish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerparrish/pseuds/Flowerparrish)




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